How to Live, Breathe, Fight & How to Die
by Carly Sullivan
Summary: How to Live, How to Breathe, How to Fight, and How to Die follows Michael Garibaldi after the events of In Valen's Name
1. How to Live, HtB, HtF & How to Die

"Thank you for seeing me, Entil'zha."  
  
The fabric of the Delenn's robe rustled faintly as she stepped out from behind the desk to greet the Ranger. She picked her way around the packing crates that still littered the new offices of the InterStellar Alliance. "You have a report for me?"  
  
"The mission was completed, Entil'zha." Straw-colored bangs shaded Drew Callahan's eyes as his head bobbed forward. "We engaged the raiders yesterday at 08:30 Earth Standard Time, just outside the jump point near Centauri Prime. Our objectives were accomplished within the hour."  
  
The Minbari sank softly into a chair, a small smile playing at her mouth. "And Garibaldi?" she inquired.  
  
"As far as anyone knows," Callahan replied, "he's dead." 


	2. How to Live, How to Breathe, How to Figh...

It was President Sheridan who appointed Michael Garibaldi to be the Interstellar Alliance's Director of Covert Intelligence, and it was Ranger Garibaldi who interceded with Entil'zha Delenn to have me appointed as his second. Michael pushed me past my apprehensions, teaching me security and intelligence by instruction, example, and immersion. Shortly after the attempt to assassinate Sheridan, Garibaldi delegated responsibility for the President's personal security to me. It was a charge that awed and sometimes frightened me, but it was clear that the relationship between Garibaldi and Sheridan, with all its history, made Michael the wrong man to handle the day-to-day of the President's safety.  
  
That responsibility required me to be part of the President's daily security briefing. Within a few months, those meetings had taken on a depressingly routine theme. Attacks, focused on Alliance ships, continued, and we were all frustrated by our inability to stop them or identify their source.   
  
I watched Garibaldi as he ran down the information yet again for Sheridan. The business suit he wore made him look old, I thought. He said it was more appropriate for the job than our Ranger uniform, but I suspected he was still not comfortable with that garb. He did not object to my wearing it, and he wore the Isil'zha - the Ranger badge that had once belonged to Entil'zha Sinclair - on his suit jacket.   
  
"Mr. President, I think it may be time to involve the telepaths."   
  
"Telepaths? What are you suggesting, Michael?"  
  
"With your permission, Mr. President, I suggest we recruit some of our guests down in Brown Sector. Assign them to WhiteStars in the Ranger fleet. Maybe they can pick up something during an encounter. Maybe they can see or hear or feel or ...whatever it is they do... who it is we're fighting."  
  
"The Minbari could provide telepaths," Sheridan pointed out.   
  
"By your leave, Mr. President," I interrupted, "since all of the Alliance worlds are affected by these raiders and since any of the worlds could be responsible, it might be unwise to involve any of the governments in the investigation. Minbari telepaths might be perceived as agents of the Minbari government."  
  
"Any human telepaths will not been seen as agents of EarthGov?"   
  
"Not these telepaths, Mr. President," Michael explained. "PsiCorps would be associated with EarthGov, but these people are independent, freelance, rather than in the service of any of the worlds. Their search for their own homeworld makes that clear."  
  
"Even if they could - even if they would - how will that help us? We need proof, evidence we can act on. We try to put forth the impressions of a telepath - a telepath in our employ - and we'll be laughed at."  
  
"All right, it's not enough to act on. I'll admit that. But at least it might give us a place to start some other investigation. Damn it, Mr. President, we're looking at a blank wall here."  
  
It took several more minutes for Garibaldi to win a grudging acknowledgement from Sheridan, but ultimately the President gave approval to explore the possibility of using telepaths. I wondered if Garibaldi would handle that negotiation himself. Michael's distrust of telepaths, nearly legend, was understandable, given what he had been through, but it was clear since his return to Babylon 5, that he was making an effort to overcome his feelings. As we left the President's office, I tried to sound him out.  
  
"You want to do some planning before we approach the telepaths?"  
  
"Planning isn't always the best course of action when you're dealing with telepaths," Garibaldi replied, "at least, when you're dealing with telepaths who have no reservations about listening in on anybody's thoughts, anytime, anywhere." He shook his head, as much to chase the thought as to express it. "No, the more spontaneous this is, the better off we'll be."  
  
"OK, so we plan to be spontaneous." I glanced over to see if he was smiling. He was, but only for an instant.   
  
"I'll handle this one," he said.   
  
"You think that's wise?"  
  
A shrug was Garibaldi's only answer for a time. "You know, I never understood how Sinclair and Sheridan handled all the diplomacy crap that went with running the station. But I did learn a few things from watching them. This Byron character wants respect - for himself and for telepaths in general. If we're going to get anywhere with him, I can't send a subordinate to negotiate. I have to show up myself to let him know that he's important. Even then, it's risky. He probably thinks the President should make the call personally."  
  
"You talk about him as if he were a head of state."  
  
"He thinks he is. That's what he wants - a telepath homeworld. I don't know. Maybe that would be a good thing."  
  
"Maybe, but where?"  
  
"You could do some research on that, in your spare time," he teased. "In other business... there should be information coming in from some of the WhiteStars today. Can you handle the debriefings?"  
  
"I can. I do have one appointment though, with Ambassador Mollari. Information about the emperor's security force."  
  
"Oh, now that's gonna be helpful."  
  
"The Narns suggested using Pouchmates as body doubles."  
  
"And you haven't brought that up with the President yet?"  
  
I used the moment of laughter to shift to a more serious subject. "Michael, sometimes I wonder why I'm here. You don't need me. You could handle this detail yourself, and if you did need manpower, I'm sure Mr. Allan would have his staff cooperate with you."  
  
He winced and waved his hands awkwardly in front of him. "Zack's a good man. But it's not the same." He paused, but we both knew that wasn't an answer. "Zack's people are security officers, and I'm sure they're very good at their jobs." Another pause. "But they're not Rangers."   
  
"For the work we're doing, Michael, does that really matter?" I asked.   
  
"Maybe not. But it matters for me. Yeah, all right, a lot of the day-to-day of what we do is the same as what I did before Tuzanor. But I'm not the same. I'm a Ranger. That means something. How to live, how to breathe, how to fight, how to die. That's what they taught us, isn't it? But I'm still working it out. You help me learn to be Anla'shok."  
  
"Still learning? I thought your training ended when Entil'zha pinned that badge on you."  
  
Garibaldi's left hand jumped to the Isil'zha on his jacket. He fingered it gently - lovingly, I thought. "Yeah, well, you know me. Always playing catch-up. I've still got a few issues to resolve."  
  
I waited, watching, as Michael's hand flattened over the Isil'zha, as though to salute the Entil'zha, then dropped limp at his side again.   
  
"You haven't made your peace with Sinclair yet, have you?" I asked softly.   
  
"Not yet." The words had a crispness that suggested a forced control. "Maybe, before I die."  
  
We parted at the end of the corridor, each to his own tasks. I spent some time finalizing security arrangements for President Sheridan's upcoming trip to the newly independent Mars, before a lunch meeting with the Centauri representative to the Alliance.   
  
"Thank you for seeing me, Ambassador Mollari." I bowed slightly as he motioned for me to sit.   
  
"You are a Ranger, yes?" He paused only long enough for me to assent. "You were trained on Minbar, yes?" I nodded, agreed, and wondered where this was going. "You share the Minbari aversion to alcohol?"  
  
I could not help but laugh. "No, Ambassador."  
  
"Good! Another drink, barkeep, and one for my friend here."  
  
"Thank you, sir, but I am on duty."  
  
"Not to worry," he replied. "I'll drink yours."  
  
"With all respect, Ambassador, should you be drinking this way so soon after your heart attack?"  
  
"Ah! There it is! You escaped the Minbari prohibition, but you work for that teetotaler Garibaldi! Take my advice, young man. People do not enjoy having security - or anyone - know as much about their lives as your friend Garibaldi seems to know. It is... spooky."  
  
I thanked Mollari for his counsel. Over lunch, I explained that we were interviewing representatives of all the Alliance worlds, looking for any ideas that might help us improve security for President Sheridan.   
  
"I'm not sure there is much to tell you, Mr. Callahan. The Emperor is protected by the Republican Guard, including a contingent of personal bodyguards. Nothing elaborate."  
  
"In the station records, Ambassador, there is information on the Emperor's visit to Babylon 5."  
  
"Yes, yes, Turhan. A momentous occasion, culminating, unfortunately, in his death here on the station. It was awkward, to say the least."  
  
"The records indicate that Emperor Turhan's escort included telepaths."  
  
"That was another era, my friend. An esteemed tradition that our current emperor prefers to ignore."  
  
A bit of prompting and a few more drinks elicited an explanation of Centauri's tradition of surrounding the emperor with four telepaths. Their linked minds allowed the ruler to maintain a connection to his court when he was elsewhere.   
  
"Emperor Cartagia doesn't maintain the tradition?"  
  
"There are many traditions Emperor Cartagia has banished. Our homeworld has become an unfamiliar land." Londo sighed. "Perhaps it is right to seek new ways. The old ways have left us empty, and so very, very tired. To make a new world...perhaps this is not such a bad thing. What do you think, my young ranger?"  
  
I said little but let the Centauri ramble on a while. Mollari's reflections were part nostalgia, part fantasy, regret muddled with ambition. Wistfulness walked with me when I took my leave.   
  
The rest of my day was spent in conversation with other Rangers, as one by one the WhiteStars on patrol reported in. I was still in conference when Garibaldi returned. From the corner of my eye, I saw him move through the reception area and into his office. He acknowledged no one on his way - a bad sign. But his office door remained open as he scanned messages on the viewer. Not too bad.   
  
I rapped lightly on the open door, accepted his grunt as an invitation, and rehashed the information Rangers had brought us as concisely as possible: signs of rebuilding in some of the outer colonies and the needs that created, a few border skirmishes, and persistent confrontations with the unidentified raiders.  
  
"I've heard this report before."  
  
"I'm sorry. Did you make contact with the telepaths?"  
  
"We have an appointment with the great man tomorrow." His voice told me he was too weary to maintain his resentment, and I took note of the 'we.'   
  
"Meditation might be an appropriate preparation for our meeting. If our minds are quiet..."  
  
He leaned back in his chair and some of the tension in his frame seemed to ease. "That kind of thinking is one of the reasons I keep you around." He smiled and fingered the Isil'zha.   
  
"One last thing, Michael." The one report I didn't want to make. "White Star 23 checked in. They just came from Earth. It's not officially a matter they'd keep track of, but they thought you'd want to know." Michael stopped scanning messages. "Alfred Bester was released. The charges you filed were dismissed."  
  
"You are not telling me this. There is no way you are telling me this." Garibaldi rose from his chair, and I resisted the impulse to back off a step.   
  
"I'm sorry, Michael, but they released him yesterday morning. The court said there was no credible evidence."  
  
"Lyta! Lyta was going to testify..."  
  
"The court ruled that her testimony was not admissible because she was rogue at the time of the incident."  
  
Michael began to pace the small office, his fists clenching and unclenching as he walked. I waited for the whisper of exhalation and the slowing of movement that would signal he was beginning to calm. It took a while.   
  
"I guess not even meditation will help this one?"  
  
"Not even medication will help this one." He drew a few deep breaths, and I wondered what expletives he was censoring. He tipped his head to the side and pressed his lips into a mock smile. "Well, delight, respect, compassion, eh?"  
  
"And patience," I said.   
  
"And patience," he repeated. With a slap, Garibaldi darkened the com panel. 


	3. How to Live, How to Breathe, How to Figh...

We began the new day in meditation, memories of our training at Tuzanor never far from our minds. The early morning briefing concerned the move of Interstellar Alliance administration to Minbar and the implementation of security both for the ultimate transfer and for the visits Sheridan and Delenn expected to make while setting up the new offices. I scheduled a briefing for the rangers who would escort Delenn on her next trip, then caught up with Garibaldi on his way to Brown Sector.  
  
"Su E' san? Are you all right with this?" I asked him.   
  
"Why do you keep asking me that?"  
  
"A' fa'an esan de'fala"  
  
"I know what's coming, too," he answered, "but nothing is going to change it."  
  
"Nie vitrosh," I said, although I was not sure if I were apologizing for questioning him or for what I suspected was about to happen.   
  
"Nee'fa," Michael replied. "We'll be all right."  
  
Despite our appointment, we were forced to wait for the leader of the telepath colony. We used the time to quiet ourselves, physically and mentally. When Byron appeared, the telepath wasted no time on pleasantries.   
  
"Very clever, gentlemen. Mundanes often try to shield their thoughts from us, but thinking in Minbari is at least original. Useless, of course. Thoughts are formed as much in image as in language, so your ploy is rather pointless. But let's move on. You want my people to work with your military. It will not happen."  
  
My admittedly limited experience with telepaths had not prepared me to have someone so boldly look into my mind uninvited. I struggled to control the defensiveness I felt, since I knew it would do us no good to argue with him. As Byron continued, he seemed to focus his attack on Michael.  
  
"Do you have any idea what you're asking, Mr. Garibaldi?" His back was to Michael, but he looked over his shoulder. "No, you don't, do you?"   
  
He turned and approached us. "You want my people to put themselves in harm's way, just by being aboard your ships in battle, and then to reach out to an unidentified mind, with no assurances about what they will find there. To invade that mind without permission to try to pull back information for you, and very possibly to be inside that mind when your people blow its owner out of existence."   
  
He rocked back on his heels, took a step or two to the right, and then stopped. He gazed far into the distance or the past. "Do you know what it's like to be inside someone's mind as they die, Mr. Garibaldi?" he asked softly, and then his tone and tempo began to rise. "Do you know what it does to you? To your mind? To your soul?   
  
"How many of my people will get trapped in those dying minds? How many of them will come back psychotic? Or comatose?"  
  
His voice, just a micron overloud, echoed off the bulkhead in the approaching quiet. Garibaldi waited until all the reverberation had ceased and listened a moment to the silence as though he too could hear the other's thoughts.   
  
"What can I offer to persuade you?" he asked at last.   
  
The telepath laughed. "There is only one thing we want, Mr. Garibaldi, and do not flatter yourself to think that it is within your power to give." Without further speech or ceremony, Byron strode from the room.  
  
I watched Michael for some reaction, some clue to what to do next, but he simply stood there. I saw no tension in his body, no affect in his face. I wondered if he saw, as I did, Lyta Alexander watching from the shadows, but I was reluctant to break the silence with any questions. After a few moments, he turned back toward me and laid a hand on my shoulder. I was surprised to see him smile.   
  
"Begin again," he said, as we retraced our steps.   
  
"Old fashioned detective work," Garibaldi said when we arrived back at his office. "Before there were telepaths, before there were scanners and jumpgates, back when my grandmother was walking a beat in Boston, cops figured things out. They caught the bad guys by simple detective work, so..." He brought a map up on the display screen. "...we begin again. And this time, we figure it out."  
  
We plotted the locations of each of the raiders' attacks, noted approach vectors, dates, times. We listed the targets of the attacks, their size, their planetary affiliation, their cargo and destination. We looked for patterns and found none.   
  
"OK," Michael said, "action must flow from patience and determination." We both smiled at the reference to our training. "So, we are determined. We will try to be patient. Try another tack. What's not there?"  
  
I shook my head. "I swear we've put up everything we know."  
  
Michael mirrored my motion. "That's not what I mean. We've been looking at what's there, and we're not coming up with anything. What's missing from this picture? Look at the negative space. Who or what isn't there?"  
  
We looked again, searching for the conspicuous absence, but found too much missing to be helpful. Frustration was transmuting to despair when Michael turned back to the map. "Direction," he murmured.   
  
Weariness was making me silly, and I started to giggle. "Yeah, yeah, direction, determination, patience, and strength. I'm running out of all of them."  
  
"No, seriously, direction," he said. "That's what's missing. Our people gave chase when these pirates ran, didn't they?"   
  
I checked our records and affirmed.   
  
"That's not up here," he said, tapping the map. We went to work plotting the pursuits. It was neither clear nor consistent, but it was more than we had had.   
  
Garibaldi plucked his jacket from the chair. "I think we have a call to make."  
  
I suggested we talk with the President before we started a diplomatic incident, but Michael demurred. In his view, involving President Sheridan would make it a matter of importance. He was, he said, trading on old friendships. The Centauri ambassador was not in his quarters, but we found him where last I had seen him, in a Zocalo bar.   
  
Mollari showed no surprise and seemed neither pleased nor displeased by our appearance. Garibaldi was direct.   
  
"Londo, we've been analyzing our information on the recent raids, and we've noticed something very interesting." I watched Mollari for any agitation but there was no hint of anxiety. "When these guys run for cover, they run toward Centauri Prime."  
  
"Ridiculous, Mr. Garibaldi. We are not criminals."  
  
"Of course not, Londo," Michael agreed with a wave of his hand. "And I'm certain that if the government of the Centauri Republic were aware that some criminals were using their territory as a hiding place, they would come to the InterStellar Alliance immediately for help in weeding out these parasites. That's why we wanted you to know about this the moment we recognized it." He leaned back in his chair. "We won't have a chance to brief President Sheridan about this until tomorrow morning, but you can probably move through diplomatic channels a whole lot faster than that."  
  
Londo took a sip of Brevari and screwed up his face as though the liquor had soured. "What is it you want, Mr. Garibaldi?"   
  
"Just a little cooperation, maybe a little information. I'm sure your government is eager to share whatever it knows about these mystery ships with its partners in the Alliance. Start with who they are, and work up to what they want."  
  
"Absurd! We know nothing of these pirates you speak of," Mollari huffed and turned in his chair. "This is outrageous!"  
  
"Londo, we've known each other a long time," Michael said, leaning in to the Centauri's shoulder. His voice was soft but intense. "Now, I'm not stupid enough to ask you to do something because it's the right thing to do, or even as a personal favor. I'm simply telling you that cooperating with us in this is in your own best interest." He sat back again. "Unless, of course, Centauri Prime is giving these pirates sanctuary..."  
  
Mollari sighed deeply and drained his drink.   
  
I had to work hard to keep up with Michael as he strode through the station corridors. Admittedly, I was distracted, trying to decide whether it was more important to figure out what had just happened or what was going to happen next. The latter became clearer when we stopped in front of Delenn's door.   
  
"Any minute now, President Sheridan should be approached by Ambassador Mollari on behalf of the Centauri Republic," Michael explained. "They will be discussing the recent discovery that the raiders may be hiding in Centauri space. With your permission, Entil'zha, we would like to assign teams of rangers to intercept the pirates when they try to return there."  
  
Delenn showed no distress and only a hint of surprise. "You may assign WhiteStars as you deem necessary, Mr. Garibaldi," she said, "But has the Centauri government approved this?"  
  
"Not yet, Entil'zha, but we believe they will. In fact, we expect the Centauri to request it."   
  
Delenn was skeptical, but when Sheridan linked in and asked us to join his meeting with Ambassador Mollari, she eyed Garibaldi with a cautious amusement. Although everyone was cooperative enough during the conference, afterward President Sheridan demanded explanations and he wasn't about to accept vague answers. We explained the analysis that led us to confront Mollari, and frankly, Sheridan wasn't convinced. I'm not sure if we really were either, but it was the only lead we had, and the fact that Mollari caved in as easily as he did suggested we were right.   
  
"So you're telling me," Sheridan restated, "that you think the Centauri may be complicit with these pirates." No one responded but the President didn't seem to care. "And in spite of that suspicion, you want to lay a snare for the raiders by allying with the Centauri. How do we know our Rangers are not walking into a trap? They could be killed!"  
  
Garibaldi shook his head. "Far be it from me to tell you anything about diplomatic relations, Mr. President, but the Centauri have to know that if any harm comes to our people from them, they're admitting to their guilt, and the Alliance will respond to them as outlaws. Even if they are guilty, they can't tip their hand that way. They're too proud a people."  
  
"Except..." I wasn't sure if I should inject myself into this conversation, but if the lives of my fellow rangers were at stake, I wasn't going to take chances. "I had a conversation with Ambassador Mollari yesterday, and he went on at some length about Emperor Cartagia's break with so many of the traditions of the Republic. I got an image of Cartagia as, well, unconventional at the least, and possibly unstable. If he's in control, what we believe we know about the Centauri may not be reliable anymore."  
  
I saw concern in the faces around the table, a caution that changed to alarm as the station's claxons began to sound. Sheridan hit his link.   
  
"Is this necessary?" The voice of Captain Elizabeth Lochley was testy.   
  
"Captain, President Sheridan here. What seems to be the problem?"   
  
"We've got incoming. And they're not friendly."  
  
In one motion, Michael rose, bowed slightly to Sheridan and Delenn, and hit his own link. "Garibaldi to C&C."  
  
"Corwin here. Go."  
  
"Request permission to scramble with the station's fighters."  
  
"Looks like we can use the help, Mr. Garibaldi. Permission granted."  
  
"On my way."  
  
I moved to follow him, hoping the pilot training we had received at Tuzanor was adequate to prepare me for a serious firefight, but Michael stopped me. "No! Your responsibility is here. Make sure that Sheridan and Delenn stay safe. Evacuate them if necessary. And don't take any hero crap from either of them."  
  
I did my best to execute those orders, but in a battle of wills with President Sheridan or Entil'zha Delenn, I lose. And they had me double teamed. Although Delenn repeatedly expressed the desire to be useful, I was able to keep the Entil'zha where she was. I had Lochley's wrath to back up my insistence that the President should not go to C&C, so he finally agreed to follow the situation from his office over the com system.   
  
As we watched the battle, I found myself searching the whizzing Starfuries for Garibaldi's insignia. It had been clear from the moment Michael's ship dropped that Lochley was not pleased to have him out there, clear enough that I figured Corwin would have some hell to pay for granting permission without consulting her. Audio monitor on C&C gave us some insight into what was happening outside our visual range and it gave us witness to the unexpected events on the bridge. Our first sign was the voice of Captain Lochley.  
  
"Security! Get a detail to C&C on the double. How the hell did a civilian just walk in here?"  
  
"I know you and I will not let you do this." The voice with an otherworldly calm was Lyta Alexander's.   
  
We heard Zack Allan announce his presence to Lyta, but his words choked off before he could ask her to come along with him. We heard nothing more from her, and as we watched, the raiders fled and our fighters give chase.   
  
I would have worried more about the fact that we had not had contact with Garibaldi for so long if events on station hadn't kept us so occupied. Sheridan demanded a debriefing with Lochley the minute the station was secured. The captain acquiesced with little grace.   
  
The ships that attacked the station had withdrawn, although no one was willing to call it a retreat. No shift in the balance of battle suggested that we had won. Neither could any of us name the reason for the attack. And as good a look at the raiders as we had gotten, we still could not identify them.  
  
"While we're at it, Mr. President," Lochley interjected, "I think it's time we had a talk about the telepath situation."  
  
"Situation, Captain?" Sheridan arched an eyebrow. "I wasn't aware we had a situation."  
  
"Mr. President, that woman made her way into C&C in the middle of a battle situation. She used some sort of telepathic manipulation to overpower and disable our security people. God knows what she could have done if her intentions had been malicious. And given the current, rising tensions, we have cause to think that she or other members of the telepath colony might well have such malice."  
  
"Have you spoken with Ms. Alexander?" Sheridan asked petulantly.  
  
"She ran out of C&C and disappeared. Security has been looking for her ever since."   
  
Lochley began to pace, hands clasped behind her back. "Mr. President," she said finally, facing Sheridan from across the room, "I respect the fact that you've given these telepaths safe quarter, but I am responsible for the safety of this station and all of its inhabitants, and I perceive a threat here."  
  
"Now just a minute, Captain..." Sheridan stepped around the table but Lochley didn't flinch.   
  
"I will not act against you, Mr. President, but I feel obligated to have personnel on board who can handle these people if they should choose to harm us."  
  
Sheridan gasped audibly. "Captain, if you bring PsiCorps in here, we will have a situation. You're throwing sparks at a powder keg."  
  
"I'm sorry you don't agree, Mr. President, but it was clear today that traditional security measures are ineffective against these people. I have to protect this station, and if I need the services of the PsiCorps to do that, then I will call them in." She moved to the door without waiting for further argument from anyone. "Good day, Mr. President."  
  
A sinking sense of ineptitude swept over me as I realized that Sheridan was staring at me, expectant, as though somehow I held the answer to this whole mess. I went through the motions of inhaling, although my lungs felt just as empty when I was done. "Would you like me to find Ms. Alexander, Mr. President?" I asked, frantically trying to imagine what could make things better.  
  
Sheridan gave me a sharp nod. "Yes, if you can." He walked back to his desk, tapping his fingers along the surface as he circled it. "I'd also like you to locate Garibaldi," he said pensively, "but knowing Michael, that won't be easy." He sighed and looked at me. "But if you find him before I do, warn him that the Captain may be bringing PsiCorps on board. And duck when you tell him. He's not going to like that news."  
  
I set off for Brown Sector, wondering why I thought I could find Lyta Alexander when Zack Allan's security forces had failed. On some level I hoped, even expected, that she'd find me. The few telepaths I could find were frostily uninformative. Remembering what Michael had said about their habits, I wondered if I was being scanned. On cue, my link chirped, sending a chill through me. The foreboding was quickly displaced by relief, however, when Michael's voice came through.   
  
"Where are you?" he asked. "I've got to get out of here before the Doc catches up with me." I explained my Brown Sector quest and offered to meet him in his office. "No! That's the first place Stephen will look. Stay where you are. I'm coming to you."  
  
He was still in his flight suit when he found me. "Why are you hiding from the Doctor? Why is he looking for you?" He waved off my questions, but I could guess from the look of him. I wondered how much of his Starfury had made it home. "How did it go out there?"  
  
His face hardened in a way I hadn't often seen before, a tension that told me there was more on his heart than he was willing to talk about. Then he straightened his shoulders. "We lost people," he said, and swallowed hard. "That's never good." I hung my head, ashamed that loss of life had never entered my thinking about the battle.   
  
"You find her?" he asked, looking at me just long enough to see my head shake. "You do know you're on a wild goose chase as long as she doesn't want to be found?" He paused and nodded just a pulse. "Or he doesn't want her to be found." Another piece of the puzzle dropped into place as I watched. "She'll come to us, and Byron will be with her," he said as he led the way back to Sheridan's office. I decided it was ducking time.   
  
Sheridan was right. Michael didn't like the news of Lochley's decision, and there is a dented trash can in Brown Sector to prove it, but I watched him work at controlling his breathing and his emotion as we walked. This was the second time I'd given him unpleasant news. I didn't like that part of my job.   
  
The chill I had felt in Brown Sector revisited me when Lyta and Byron came around the bend in the corridor. Straightening, I greeted them and ushered them into President Sheridan's office. No one seemed surprised. Perhaps their diplomatic training let them hide it or perhaps Sheridan and Delenn had expected the telepath leaders to appear.   
  
Sheridan began a tactful speech, addressed to Lyta, gently suggesting that her actions earlier had not been wisely chosen. Byron interrupted almost immediately.   
  
"Our understanding, Mr. President, was that my people were safe aboard Babylon 5."   
  
As Sheridan began to explain that no one meant Ms. Alexander any harm, I watched Michael. Gradually, casually, he moved around the room, head bowed, eyes on the floor, until he stood behind President Sheridan's right shoulder.   
  
Byron interrupted again. "Your words are little assurance, Mr. President." He invested the title with contempt. "As we speak, Alfred Bester is boarding the station."  
  
Michael raised his head at that, but his gaze went not to Byron but to Lyta. He squared his body to face her, then leaned back against the credenza behind him. The change in posture brought his eyes level with Lyta's.   
  
Sheridan tried to explain Lochley's decision. Given that he didn't agree with her, he did a fair job of it. Why did it have to be Bester? Couldn't PsiCorps have sent someone who didn't have so much history with everyone here?   
  
I was surprised that Michael hadn't shown more of a reaction to the news of Bester's arrival. He hadn't moved since last I looked at him, just stared at Lyta, inviting her, daring her to speak to him. Or to scan him? I followed his gaze back to Lyta. She made no effort to avert her eyes, but showed no reaction either. Lyta affected a little squint when she was scanning someone, I knew, but I saw no sign of it now.   
  
The President and the telepath were laboring on about Bester's presence on the station, a rather futile debate since it was Lochley's doing. Eventually, Sheridan was able to shift the topic.   
  
"I understand you refused our request for your help in identifying the raiders. Is there any way I can persuade you to reconsider?"  
  
Lyta flinched as though something had touched her. Byron shook his head angrily. "Not so long as this man holds power." His gesture indicated Garibaldi.   
  
"Byron!" Lyta broke from Michael's glance.   
  
"No, Lyta, I will not be dissuaded. The truth needs to be spoken. The man despises telepaths, all of us, without exception. He has no appreciation for our talents, no respect for our work, no compassion for our situation. I cannot trust him and I will not work with him."   
  
Delenn and I deferred to Sheridan when all three of us sprang to Garibaldi's defense. Oddly, Michael made no move to defend himself, but continued to study Lyta. Her body was turned toward Byron, but as he and Sheridan argued back and forth about Garibaldi's trustworthiness, her gaze returned to Michael.   
  
Byron spun toward the door, nearly stumbling over me. "Come along, Lyta. We're wasting our time here."   
  
He was through the door before she began to turn to follow him. Just as she reached the threshold, Michael spoke her name softly. She looked back at him.   
  
"Who are they?" he asked.   
  
Her eyes shimmered, and I couldn't be sure if from telepathy or tears. Maybe it was both. "Dark Soldiers," she said. The room was suddenly cold. "They want to go home." 


	4. How to Live, How to Breathe, How to Figh...

I can't say if Michael actually slept that night and from the way he looked when I saw him the next morning, I tend to doubt it. But he seemed to welcome our morning meditation, and he didn't doze off during it.   
  
The map we had used to track the raiders back to Centauri space was still on the display panel when we returned to the office. I placed a marker at the location of Babylon 5, added date and time, and turned to Michael for the vectors. He added the direction of their flight - right back to Centauri Prime - but told me to check with C&C for the approach vector.   
  
I made that call from my office and left Michael to deal with other things. He hadn't spoken about Byron's claim that Bester was aboard, and that surprised and worried me. But he hadn't spoken about his pursuit of the raiders or his exchange with Lyta either. The quieter Michael got, the more dangerous he was. My apprehension was growing.  
  
When I returned to his office to add the approach vector to our map, he was on the com with Londo.   
  
"Very well, Mr. Garibaldi, very well." The Centauri's voice was gruff but resignation captured his eyes. "I have made the arrangements. Your Rangers may patrol the area."  
  
"Thank you, Ambassador." Michael's voice was velvet. "The Alliance appreciates the generosity of the Centauri." Since I knew how much Michael hated diplomacy, the conversation was rather amusing. "May I ask, Londo? Your fleet? Can I assume Centauri vessels are also protecting your space?"  
  
"Yes, yes," Mollari replied petulantly. "What does this matter?"  
  
"I just want to be certain our people don't get in the way of the Centauri fleet, that there are no misunderstandings, that's all."  
  
They talked for several more minutes while I pretended not to eavesdrop. When he finally ended the call, Michael joined me in studying the map.   
  
"It seems totally random," I noted.   
  
"Chaos," he said. "It's what they want."  
  
I turned and watched as he walked back to his desk, dropped heavily into the chair, and propped his feet up on the desktop. "You know something," I declared.   
  
He shook his head. "More 'remember,'" he said cryptically.   
  
"Michael?"  
  
Garibaldi sighed, then slowly stood again. "I don't know. It's just... Lyta called them 'Dark Soldiers.' We've heard that name before, years ago." He shivered a little. "A lot of bad dreams ago." He walked across the office and filled his mug again. "When we met the first one, we didn't really understand. But the Shadows... we learned more than we wanted to know about the Shadows. They want total chaos, and they use other races to achieve it."  
  
"I thought the Shadows went beyond the Rim?"  
  
He nodded. "They did, but they left their friends behind. We know now that the Dark Soldier that lurker tried to warn us about was ... what do you want to call them? A Shadow follower? Helper? Apprentice?" He shrugged. "Whatever you call them, you don't want to know them."  
  
I looked again at the map, but it yielded no more than before. "So what do we do?"  
  
"Maybe the better question," Michael proposed, "is what do they want? What have they accomplished?"  
  
I looked back over the reports of previous incidents. "Frankly, not much. They've fired on ships in transit and given chase, at least until our WhiteStars arrived, but they've yet to seize a cargo or board anyone. We might know something more about them if they had. They've attacked settlements, but there has been no pillaging, no extortion. They just seem to be terrorizing everyone."  
  
"Terrorizing." He repeated the word, not as a question, but as an insight. "And if someone were terrorizing you, what would you do?"  
  
I considered the question. "Fight, if I thought I could. Otherwise, I guess, I'd run."  
  
Michael turned back to the map. "So what if they're trying to clear this section of space?"  
  
"Why? There's nothing special. A couple of worlds that were wiped out in the Shadow War, and a few, very poor, inhabited planets. Us, of course. What's of any value to them?"  
  
He looked at me, but I knew he was seeing something else. "They want to go home."  
  
"You think this is their home?"  
  
He snapped out of the memory with a shake of his head. "No, that area had a scattering of colonies - little outposts, really. Even before the war, it wasn't much. Some humans, some Drazi, some Centauri, separate colonies, and a few that mingled the races. But no one, no government anyway, ever really claimed it."  
  
"And if these pirates were from this part of space," I pointed out, "we'd know them. So why do they want everybody out of here?"  
  
Garibaldi looked thoughtful. "Maybe because something is going to happen," he said. "Or they're going to make something happen."   
  
He spun toward his desk. "Look, let's get set up to intercept them. Londo's caught between the Centauri's official diplomatic stance and his own... hell, honesty is not a word I'd ever use to talk about Mollari. But over the years, he has built up some loyalties here. He's trying to bluff, but this whole thing is killing him. We may need to move fast before he loses his nerve. Check with Delenn and find out who's available."  
  
I called on Entil'zha as ordered, got a roster of rangers available for assignment, and while I was there, tended to a few of the details of security for her trip to Minbar. As I made my way back to the office, I scanned the list Delenn had provided, looking for rangers with whom we had trained, and was pleased to find several familiar names. The team would be chosen, I knew, for particular skills, not personal affiliations, but it was reassuring to have an indication that friends were alive and well.   
  
The bellow from the security officer snapped me out of my musing. I flattened myself back against the wall as an entire squad in riot gear went charging by me. The silence in their wake was a relief. Whatever crisis they were facing, the station was not under another attack. But that ease was supplanted by curiosity, or maybe it was intuition. Or suspicion. Whatever it was, I followed them.   
  
They were headed to Brown Sector and my gut told me immediately that the telepaths were somehow involved. I wasn't surprised then to see Alfred Bester at the security perimeter. I didn't stay to see more. I knew it would only anger me.   
  
Garibaldi intercepted me at the lift. "Sheridan's office," he said, pulling on his suit jacket. "We've got trouble." I shared what I had observed, provoking a deep sigh but no comment from Michael.   
  
It took only a nod at security to move us through reception and into the President's office. Sheridan was ending a call, and we were able to see Captain Lochley's image before the screen flickered off. "Gentleman." He acknowledged our presence with a nod, then turned away. From my position, I could see his face in profile and I guessed that he was trying to compose himself. Although Michael could only see Sheridan's back, he knew the heart of the matter.   
  
"I understand we have a situation with the telepaths in Brown Sector," Garibaldi said calmly. "I'm told our friend Bester is already in the middle of it."  
  
Sheridan turned to face him. "Michael, I'm sorry to ask this of you, especially under the circumstances..."   
  
Garibaldi straightened, stiffened just a bit, or maybe it was my imagination, because his words denied it. "Not a problem, Mr. President. Do we know how this thing started?"  
  
Sheridan briefed us quickly on a circumstance that, had it arisen in a nursery school, would have been dismissed as a collective tantrum and solved by putting everyone down for a nap. But these were adults, who were resolved to mistrust and fear one another and who defined themselves in terms of that conflict.   
  
"Michael, I gave these people asylum and I have a responsibility to protect them."  
  
"We'll do what we can to defuse this, Mr. President, but on some level you're putting us at odds with Captain Lochley and therefore the station's security force."  
  
"I know, Michael, and I'm..." He paused to find the politically correct phrase. "...continuing to work with the Captain on his situation." Sheridan stepped around his desk and left his worries about diplomacy behind it. "Look, I don't trust Bester not to inflame this situation. Hell, I don't trust him not to create a situation. As long as he's on station, we're going to have a tinderbox."  
  
Garibaldi assured the President we'd do all we could and left him to deal with Lochley. Outside the office, he led me not toward Brown Sector but to DownBelow. "The first thing you learn in security," he explained, "is everybody has a back door."   
  
A few minutes later, we were hoisting ourselves into a ventilation shaft, and navigating through that maze back to Brown Sector. Just before we dropped in - literally - Michael reached inside his jacket and flashed a small cylinder at me. I took the denn'bok from my belt and nodded.   
  
In fact, we had no need of weapons. The telepaths did not seem surprised by the timing of our arrival or by its method. Although our reception was not particularly warm, we were taken to see Byron near the barricades the telepaths had set up. On the other side of these blockades, I realized, were the security teams I had followed earlier, and with them, Alfred Bester. How much of this, I wondered, had he provoked?   
  
"I should have known better than to trust the promises of mundanes," Byron snarled the moment he caught sight of us. "Or is this your idea of a safe haven, Mr. Garibaldi? My people trapped like animals and your PsiCorps pounding at our door?"   
  
Michael's glance moved to the barricaded passageway and, for a moment, I thought I saw him shiver. "President Sheridan is talking with the Captain, trying to put an end to this, even as we speak. He's committed to providing you with asylum, but you're going to have to work with us."  
  
Byron started to speak, but Michael cut him off. "Look, right now I don't give a damn what you think of me. You want to put your personal feelings ahead of the welfare of your people, fine. I can leave the way I came in, and you can deal with Bester. But if you're serious about protecting your group, then we've got to cool this situation off right now."  
  
Byron seethed but said nothing. Lyta Alexander stepped up beside him. "What do you need us to do?"  
  
Garibaldi looked at the barricades again. "You've got a stand off at the moment, and those are security officers out there. Zack's not going to let his people do anything stupid. But if Bester calls in his hounds, we'll have a mess on our hands. We've got to make this whole thing disappear. Get your people away from here. Clear this area. Let us deal with security, and you just fade back into your normal lives."  
  
"Normal?" Byron snorted. "And then what, Mr. Garibaldi? Wait for your PsiCorps to chase us deeper into the bowels of the station?"  
  
This second stab of language brought Michael's irritation to the surface of his consciousness. "Will you please stop that?" He was as polite as he could manage. "It is not my PsiCorps."  
  
The telepath eyed him with a wry, growing smile. "Indeed."  
  
Garibaldi sighed but pressed on. "I can't speak for the President, but it seems to me that we need to get you out of Captain Lochley's sphere of authority, and do it as soon as possible."  
  
"What you're saying is you want to put us off the station."  
  
"What I'm saying is that it's time to make your telepath homeworld a reality. Look, there are planets that have been uninhabited since the Shadow War. If no one's reclaimed them by now, odds are they're not going to."  
  
"You're willing to give us what no one else wants? How gracious of you!"   
  
Michael's patience snapped, almost audibly. "Do you ever not complain?" Lyta stepped between them. "Look," Garibaldi continued, shifting his glance to her, "I'm not saying it will be easy. These planets got torn up during the war and you'll be starting nearly from scratch. But it will be your own. That's what you say you want."   
  
Lyta turned to Byron, but he did not take his eyes from Garibaldi's face. After a moment, Lyta looked around her slowly, pausing to focus on each cluster of telepaths huddled together. As her gaze moved away from them, they dispersed. The men at the barricades were the last to leave, then Lyta took Byron's arm and led him away.   
  
Garibaldi tapped his link, made contact with Zack Allan, and informed him of our location and our intention to come out peacefully. We could only hope that Allan truly had control of his people. With a long conscious breath, Michael stepped toward the pile of furniture that barricaded the door. Slowly, calmly, he lifted a piece of furniture, turned and set it gently on the floor behind him. Watching him, I was reminded of a martial arts form, and soon I joined in the rhythm of his motion. In unison, breathing deeply, moving meditatively, we disassembled the makeshift barrier.   
  
When all the obstacles were moved aside, Michael pounded heavily on the closed blast doors. We listened for signs of activity on the other side but heard nothing. "The controls are dead," he explained. "I'm going to try to hotwire them, but you may need to force the door at the same time."   
  
He turned to the panel, pulled out a handful of wires, and started reconnecting them. A few sparks, a few expletives, and a miniscule movement of the door gave me indicators of his progress. As Michael continued his work, I wedged my denn'bok in the first small opening and pushed the halves of the door apart. With a clank, the door mechanism released and the portal cleared. Michael joined me in the doorway, greeted Zack Allen with a word, and made eye contact with Bester before the dark figure turned and walked away.   
  
"Interesting speech. How are you planning to make it happen?" I asked when we were alone.   
  
A cocked head and a raised eyebrow were the only answer at first. Then after a few moments, he spoke. "Hopefully, we can sell the President on relocating them on one of those abandoned planets you noticed."  
  
"You want to put them in the path of the raiders? Byron will love that."   
  
"These raids won't last much longer," he replied, although I noted a lack of conviction.   
  
I remembered the personnel list and handed it to him. As he scanned it, we talked about the best people for this job and about the familiar names on the list, but when we reached the office, there was work to be done.   
  
We called up a detail map of the area where most of the attacks occurred, looked at a listing of populated areas in the region, their inhabitants, resources, trade affiliations. We found nothing extraordinary. We focused on the uninhabited regions. We looked for seismic and volcanic activity, meteorites, space debris, unusual weather patterns. While Michael paged again through flimsies on his desk, I sat back and stared at the map. I tried to quiet my mind, to relax my thoughts in the hope of seeing something, anything, new.   
  
  
  
We both jumped at the sound of Garibaldi's link. Sheridan's voice instructed Mr. Garibaldi to report to his office. It didn't sound like a happy summons and we had a good idea why.   
  
"Figure out why they're interested in that area," Michael instructed me as he pulled on his jacket, "and while you're in there, find me a planet nobody's using." Before he left, he tossed the list of available Rangers back at me. "I circled some names. Call them in."  
  
I made the calls while he was gone, all of them. Although I tried not to check the time, I knew Michael had been gone a long time, too long for me to think the meeting was going well. Whatever positive energies I had to spare I wished his way, and turned my attention to the other tasks before me. I was beginning to see some progress when Michael came in.   
  
"How did it go?" I asked, although I wasn't sure if I wanted to know any more than he wanted to tell me.   
  
"Well, Lochley and Byron have managed to agree, at least on the fact that they both want me spaced, whereas the President is holding out for having me drawn and quartered. And Bester, well..." He drew a long breath. "Fine, it went just fine. You find me a planet?"  
  
"As a matter of fact, I think I did." I felt myself start to grin at the shock on his face. I tried to squash it, but when I saw his relief and satisfaction in the information I gave him, I couldn't help but smile.   
  
"Write this up, will you? And fire a copy off to Sheridan ASAP. Maybe that'll get my butt out of the sling." He turned back to the map. "Tell me you've got some brilliant insight on our little mystery, too."  
  
I had to disappoint him on that, and we agreed we were too tired to pursue it any further. I confirmed that the team of Rangers had been contacted, would be arriving shortly, and would have quarters when they arrived, and then I suggested Michael sleep. I wanted to get the memo off to Sheridan before I did the same. 


	5. How to Live, How to Breathe, How to Figh...

It was something of a fitful sleep. When I woke, I found Michael in the garden, meditating. From the look of him, he hadn't slept well either. I joined him and we sat in silence for a time. When he spoke, it was without greeting or preface.   
  
"Does the timing of Bester's arrival seem strange to you?"  
  
Everything that concerned Bester seemed strange to me, but I considered the question. "We heard about him coming aboard from Byron, in the President's office." I was thinking out loud, and the way that Michael murmured his agreement told me he was waiting for me to reason my way to what he had already seen. "That was right after you got back from chasing the raiders." Michael nodded, said nothing, did not look toward me. "And that was shortly after Lochley told the President that she was going to call in PsiCorps."  
  
I turned to look at Michael. "Which means that he was on his way here before Lochley spoke to Sheridan, before the incident with Lyta on C&C that was Lochley's excuse for calling him in." Garibaldi shrugged but his smile grew as I drew my conclusion. "She had to have called him before any of it happened."   
  
"Either that," Michael said at last, "or he came on his own, and Lochley wanting him here was just a convenient coincidence. Either way, whatever the President may say and however deeply he may mean it, I don't think those telepaths are going to be safe here." He stood up and turned toward me. "So let's get moving."  
  
The safety of the telepath colony was a key subject at that morning's briefing for the President. He had read my memo, and agreed on the choice of the planet, but the whole notion still troubled him although he could not articulate the reason. Michael spoke it for him, a small smile playing around his face.   
  
"Begging your pardon, Mr. President, but you wanted to be the ruler of the universe. Now you're afraid to use the power that comes with it." Sheridan responded with an expletive, but Garibaldi pushed on. "You don't want to play world maker. You want this to solve itself, or disappear, or get handled by diplomats or by some council or committee. Not going to happen. You wanted to play in the big leagues, Mr. President. Well, now they're throwing fast balls right at your head. You gonna swing or duck?"  
  
I expected an explosion but it didn't come. Sheridan was silent for a time, glaring at Garibaldi, and then he spoke. "This will go to the Council, Michael, but I'll take it to them today, and we'll try to move on it as quickly as possible." He turned to me. "If and when this plan is approved, they will need safe passage. See what you can do about making those arrangements." He huffed defiantly. "Is there anything else?"   
  
I briefed him on security arrangements for the visit to Minbar Delenn had scheduled. She would leave the station aboard a WhiteStar that afternoon and return five days later. A team of Rangers would act as her bodyguards throughout the trip. When the President voiced his concerns about the raiders, I tried to reassure him, although given that he shared Michael's memories of these Dark Soldiers, I'm not sure I was convincing.   
  
Afterward, I asked Garibaldi if we would need to be present for the Council meeting. His response - "Only if we're still atoning for past sins." - did not speak of great confidence is the process. Shortly after he left to meet with Londo, I took a message from one of our WhiteStars, a message I thought it important to share. I put in a call to Zack Allan and then went in search of Michael.   
  
I found Garibaldi and Mollari in the Zocalo, and even from a distance, I could see Londo's distress. I didn't approach them, but maneuvered through the crowd until I had line of sight on Michael. His expression was somber but relaxed. His body, angled toward the Centauri, seemed to curl in on itself, and his gestures were small and gentle. Whatever Londo was saying, Michael was meeting it with compassion.   
  
I waited for Garibaldi to see me and to acknowledge that he did, then moved a little closer, just within earshot.   
  
"You do not understand what you are asking, Mr. Garibaldi," Londo was saying. "You cannot know the consequences of this action."  
  
"But I can guess, Londo. I know you; I know the Centauri. Hell, I don't always agree with you, but I know your pride and your honor. The Centauri are not going to kowtow to a bunch of pirates. I know they have to have some hold, some leverage over you."   
  
"Do you understand vengeance, Mr. Garibaldi?" Londo asked sadly. "Do you know that the fear of what may come to be is as great a punishment as the retribution itself? No, it is greater still, because you live with it every day. Rebellion may bring pain, but obedience is no relief from fear."  
  
"Londo, if you tell me what it is they have to hold over you, what threat they make, we can try to help. The Alliance, the Rangers -- we will fight for the Centauri Republic."  
  
"Once our Republic was a dream worth fighting for, Mr. Garibaldi. Now, she turns her back on her friends and embraces her enemies. It is far too late to hope for salvation."  
  
Finally, Michael motioned me to join them. "Londo, I understand the risks in this, on all levels," he was saying. "You know that we'll do everything we can to protect you and to protect your people."  
  
"I fear it may be too late for that, my friend. Do what you must." Mollari nodded sadly and raised his drink to me. "It is too bad this one has fallen under your influence. He had potential."  
  
I made a bit of small talk with the Ambassador while Michael gathered his papers, and then we took our leave. At the first cross-corridor, I pulled Michael out of the mainstream of traffic and gave him the WhiteStar's message.  
  
"They were on their way here in response to our call, and spotted strange activity in hyperspace. They found a raider fleet massing and were able to lurk just out of range and observe. They gave us numbers and direction. They're heading this way."  
  
I gestured with the scribbled notes I had made during the communication, and Michael yanked the sheet from my hand to examine it himself. It was clear his mind was racing and a lot of the territory it was passing through did not look good. Abruptly, he started to move, long strides carrying him so quickly that I had to jog to stay close enough to hear what he was telling me.   
  
"Get Delenn off the station. Now. She'll be safer on Minbar. See if you can convince Sheridan to go with her. If you can, go with them. If you can't, stay on him. And if things get hot, evacuate him. I don't care if you have to knock him out and carry him bodily to a ship, you keep him safe."   
  
I broke out to a run toward the Entil'zha's quarters, but as I moved away I could hear Michael link to Zack Allan. "Yeah, Zack, I'm on my way to you. We have a threat."  
  
President Sheridan would not entertain the idea of leaving the station, especially since I couldn't present him with a threat more credible than our hunches. I did manage to get Delenn's party away far earlier than planned, with strict instructions to the Rangers on her detail to check in on arrival at Minbar.   
  
Zack Allan was trying to talk to Captain Lochley when I arrived at the station house, but getting in only about one word for her ten. Michael sat back, out of range of the viewer, a smile of amused resignation on his face, until an irritated Allan ended the call. "I told you so," Michael chided.   
  
Allan looked from Michael to me and back several times, obviously fuming, but said nothing. Then he tapped his link and, one by one, contacted several trusted officers and asked each to report to his office. Michael rose, thanked him, and together we left.   
  
"What was that about?" I asked.   
  
"Officially, nothing," Michael replied. "Unofficially, Zack will put people on alert. They'll be ready when they're needed. And they'll know who they're taking orders from. I'm going to suit up. Stay on the President, and remember what I said."   
  
I wanted to argue. I would have felt far more useful, I knew, on Garibaldi's wing than chasing around after Sheridan, who was no more likely to be careful than Michael was. But I knew the argument would get me nowhere, so I let it go.   
  
The claxons that told us the station was under attack almost seemed a relief after the anticipation. Fighters, on alert and ready to drop, thanks to Zack Allan, were in space before Lochley could finish the order. Two squadrons were waiting for the raiders when they arrived, with Garibaldi's Starfury, I noted, right in the middle of them.   
  
The squadrons peeled off, one to attack, the other to close in defense of the station, as the defense grid sprang to life. The raiders made their runs, formed up, and came at us again. At first, Michael flew as part of beta squadron, but as the battle became ragged, I could see him venture out on his own. Whatever move he made, raiders were on him, often in pairs. An experienced fighter pilot, he was holding his own, and I told myself that it was only my concern for him that made me feel he was getting a disproportionate amount of attention from the pirates. But when I spotted him triple-teamed, I had seen enough. "Mr. President," I bellowed to Sheridan, "I'm going to the bays."   
  
The crackling roar of a jump point opening stopped me in my tracks. A WhiteStar jumped in, a guardian angel, positioned happily between the raiders attacking the station and those giving chase to Garibaldi. I didn't know who was on the bridge of this serendipitous ship, but whoever it was assessed the situation quickly and well. Executing an aerobatic turn, they quickly evened up Mr. Garibaldi's odds, then followed Michael's lead back toward the station and the now retreating raiders.   
  
  
  
The President's insistence on meeting with Captain Lochley after the raid seemed almost routine now, but the cast of characters was growing. Delenn was on her way to Minbar, or I suspect she would have been included. Michael let Beta Squadron chase the last of the raiders and he joined the meeting. I volunteered to step out, but both Sheridan and Garibaldi declined my offer. Lochley arrived, uncharacteristically quiet, which was probably just as well for Zack Allan, who accompanied her and was no doubt going to pay for putting more faith in Garibaldi than in his commanding officer. It was a surprise to most of us, however, to see Alfred Bester walk in.   
  
Captain Lochley insisted on his presence. According to her, he was now as intimately involved in the security of this station as Allan or Garibaldi. I considered taking umbrage but decided I'd rather be omitted from any group that included Bester. I could see Sheridan struggle between his desire to be diplomatic and his distaste for the PsiCop. He pointed out to the Captain that this meeting was called to discuss the threat from the raiders, not any matters concerning the telepaths, but Lochley would not budge. Bester, for his part, said nothing - eerily so - not even offering or acknowledging greetings.   
  
No one else in the room was so silent. Lochley wasted no time in reminding everyone that she wasn't pleased about having Garibaldi involved in the firefight. Zack attempted to bring the subject back to the firefight itself and our lack of information about this enemy.   
  
"Isn't it clear?" Lochley asked. "They're drones."  
  
"I find that hard to believe," Sheridan replied.  
  
"Why, Mr. President?" she demanded. "We have evidence throughout the record of our contact with other races of ships that were preprogrammed for their tasks or controlled remotely."  
  
"But not in these numbers, and hitting so many different targets," he objected.  
  
"I recognize that it's frightening to imagine a civilization capable of this kind of technological sophistication, Mr. President. But what other conclusion can we come to? We've destroyed some of their ships, yet we've never recovered a body. Those ships are empty."  
  
"They're not empty." The voice came from the corner of the office.   
  
"Oh? And what's the source of your wisdom on this matter, Mr. Garibaldi?" Lochley inquired.   
  
I watched Michael compose himself, taking a beat to clear the snappishness from his voice. "Lyta Alexander identified them as..."  
  
"Oh for heaven's sake, Garibaldi! Don't stand there and tell me you're going to base decisions that affect the security of this station and the security of the Alliance on hallucinations."  
  
I looked to Bester, fully expecting a defense, if not of Lyta, at least of telepaths in general, but he said nothing. Irritation washed over Michael's face and he did not begin to speak again until it had ebbed.   
  
"Lyta Alexander identified them as Dark Soldiers," he said, refusing to take the bait of Lochley's outburst. "If you recall, Mr. President," he said, turning to Sheridan, "that's the phrase that Amis used to describe the creature that came aboard from the Copernicus."  
  
It took a moment, but recognition showed in Sheridan's face. "I remember. A former GROPO, a war hero, that everyone thought was hallucinating." He looked at Lochley to make clear that the choice of word was deliberate. "But it turned out he was right."  
  
"Right," Michael continued. "And if you recall, we couldn't see that creature, at least not 'til we hit it with some pretty heavy weapons fire."  
  
"Wait!" Lochley interjected. "Let me make sure I understand this. This woman storms into C&C like some kind of zombie, then tells you you're fighting some invisible enemy, but you believe her because of a schizophrenic lurker." She plopped down in a chair. "That's much more sensible than believing they're drones."  
  
"Begging your pardon, Captain..." I had come to realize that when Michael started with that phrase, he wasn't. "... but I was out there today."  
  
"Against my wishes," Lochley interrupted, rising from her chair.  
  
Garibaldi ignored it. "Those ships were not pre-programmed. They responded to changes in our tactics. They followed me away from the station."   
  
"Then they're being operated remotely."  
  
"By whom? And from where? We've mapped the attacks, Captain, and we'd be happy to show you the result. There's no way you're going to tell me that any civilization has the technology to control that many ships, that spontaneously, in that many different locations. The base station would have to be huge. There's no way you could hide it."  
  
"If the control were technological, perhaps."   
  
The room went silent at that. Only Lochley's smug smile and Bester's bored disinterest broke the uniformity of confusion.  
  
"With all due respect, Captain," Zack said after a moment, "ships...remotes...technology. I don't get what you're trying to say."  
  
Lochley laughed, and I sensed in that laugh a derision of Allan that angered me far more than I would have expected. She never looked at Zack, but instead stared a moment at Michael, and finally turned and spoke to the President.   
  
"It's entirely possible those ships are being controlled telepathically," she said, "and I don't think any of us would have difficulty figuring out by whom."  
  
"That's ridiculous, Captain." Sheridan scowled.  
  
"Is it, Mr. President? Then how do you explain the little incident with Ms. Alexander barging into C&C?"  
  
Sheridan's diplomat veneer was showing significant cracks. He rolled his eyes with no attempt to hide the reaction, and paced a bit before attempting to speak. "Captain," he said with a forced evenness, "why don't we sit down and start again? I think perhaps we're losing focus here." He took a seat at the conference table between Zack and me, stalling, I thought, for time to compose himself. I watched, with a bit of surprise, as Michael stepped out from his favorite corner and joined us at the table.   
  
Lochley stepped to the chair opposite Sheridan, but did not sit. "I'm still waiting for your explanation, Mr. President."  
  
He chose to ignore that and pressed on toward rationality. "Captain, no one is more sympathetic than I am to the complexities of running this station. I understand your concerns about station security. The fact that these raiders have started to turn their attacks on Babylon 5 directly is a profound concern to all of us. But I think we need to recognize the bigger picture here."  
  
"Don't patronize me!"   
  
Sheridan winced. "Captain, the raiders have attacked targets all through this sector. How do you reconcile those attacks with your theory? What motivation would they have? And let's be realistic." Sheridan glanced at Bester, still standing near the door. "I'm sure Mr. Bester will correct me if I'm wrong, but I believe that even the strongest telepaths do have limitations of distance."  
  
Bester said nothing, gave no reaction.   
  
"But let's consider your suggestion," the President continued. "Why would the telepaths want to bring fire on the very place where they've sought safety? I'm afraid you're going to have to work a bit harder to convince me, Captain."  
  
"And may I ask what solution your intelligence team has come up with?"  
  
"We're analyzing all the available information about all of the attacks," Garibaldi said. Everyone at the table leaned in to hear the soft-voiced reply. "We're hoping to develop a strategy to intercept the bandits outside of an attack situation or to prevent their flight after an attack."  
  
Nothing Michael said was a lie, but I was astonished that he did not to amplify or specify our plans. I could see shock and disappointment in Sheridan's eyes as Lochley seized on his lack of specificity.   
  
"Hoping to develop a strategy?" she challenged. "So, you have nothing."  
  
I tried to catch Michael's eye, tried to figure out if he wanted me to talk about the Centauri connection, but he avoided my glance.   
  
"We are eager to bring this matter to a close, Captain, and I can assure you that we will share all relevant information with Mr. Allan as we uncover it."  
  
"Given your history, Mr. Garibaldi, I'm not about to rely on your assurances in matters that concern the safety of this station or its personnel."  
  
"Now, Captain..." Sheridan tried to interrupt but Michael laid a hand gently on his forearm.   
  
Garibaldi drew a breath and spoke with a sleepy huskiness. "There is no reason for you to rely on me in any matters at all, Captain. I am the Director of Covert Intelligence for the InterStellar Alliance, and in that capacity, I report to the President, and only to him. For the moment, the Alliance is headquartered here on Babylon 5, and as a result, I function in and around this station."  
  
"A situation not of my choosing, and one I would greatly prefer to change."  
  
"Noted, Captain, and you will have your wish before too much longer. But let's get a few jurisdictional matters clear. The attacks by the raiders affect all members of the Alliance. Therefore it is an Alliance problem and the Alliance will deal with it. You are, of course, free to defend Babylon 5 from any and all attacks, something Mr. Allan and his people are well equipped to do if you'd listen to him now and then. I think I can speak for the President and say that the Alliance will be happy to help in the defense of the station in any way we can."  
  
"And I think I've made it clear that I don't want you getting in the way of my fighters, trying to play hero."  
  
"Secondly," Michael continued, a bit more loudly, "President Sheridan has granted asylum to the telepath colony in Brown Sector, and placed them under the protection of the Alliance. That is not a pledge the President makes lightly and it's not one I take lightly. The Alliance will protect those telepaths, Captain."  
  
"While they destroy us all."  
  
"Begging your pardon, Captain, but you've just come in here and proposed two extraordinary, and I might add, contradictory theories about the raider attacks. You have no evidence to support either theory. Now call me old-fashioned, but where I come from, you don't accuse somebody until you've got something that looks like proof. You want to go find some proof, Captain, I'll be happy to listen. But until then, this is my investigation."  
  
Lochley stared at him a moment, then straightened and addressed the President. "Mr. President, I have a station to run, and I'm going to stop wasting my time here and get back to work. You've made some grave errors, Mr. President, some very poor choices, and clearly, I can't change that. But understand clearly, sir, that I will not allow your faulty judgment to bring harm to my station. And where the defense of this station is concerned, Mr. President, I will not be limited by your misguided promises."   
  
Sheridan planted his fists on the tabletop and pushed himself up. "Excuse me, Captain, but that sounds like..." The last of the sentence was cut off by the door closing behind Lochley and Bester. The President dropped back into his chair, and the four of us sat in silence for a few moments.  
  
"What the hell just happened here?" Sheridan asked at last. No one was eager to respond.   
  
Michael spoke after a time. "Well, we found out that the Alliance and Babylon 5 command are not one big happy team, which means..." He looked at Zack, who still seemed dazed. "... that you should probably get the hell out of here. You're in enough trouble already." Zack nodded, but didn't move.   
  
"Michael, is there any possibility..." Sheridan began.   
  
Garibaldi shook his head. "I seriously doubt it, Mr. President. I've engaged with those ships twice now and there's no way I'll believe they're drones. But then I wasn't the one who dropped a WhiteStar on Zha'dum. And as for the other business..." He shook his head. "We've got to get those telepaths out of here, John." It was barely a whisper and the first time I'd heard him call the President by name.  
  
Sheridan nodded. "I have it before the council, Michael. As soon as they approve..."  
  
"And if they don't?" Michael asked, frowning at him. He answered the surprise in Sheridan's eyes. "I know you think it'll pass, but..." He hesitated and I wasn't sure if he was choosing his words or weighing their consequences. "Let's just say I'm not convinced everyone around here is in his or her right mind."  
  
"So what else is new?" Zack asked. "And what the hell was that with Bester being in on this meeting?"   
  
Michael and I exchanged a glance and I took the opportunity to ask my question. "Was there a reason you were so vague about the investigation? You never even mentioned Centauri Prime."  
  
He nodded but waited a moment before he spoke. "There's no way we can know what was just pulled out of our heads without our permission. I'm not giving up anything for free." He sighed. "Look, all our evidence says these raiders are based on Centauri Prime, but I don't think the Centauri want them there."  
  
"Is this another one of your hunches, Michael?"  
  
Garibaldi waggled his head as he considered the question. "Yes and no," he said finally. "Let's just say I'm working on backing up my hunch. But for the moment, I think the fewer people that have the information about Centauri Prime, the better."   
  
Zack's link chirped and a voice alerted him to a disturbance. "Where?" he asked, and I sensed a collective hope that it would not be Brown Sector. When the reply of DownBelow came through, Zack excused himself and all of us relaxed just a little.   
  
"What about our telepaths, Mr. President?" Michael asked.   
  
Sheridan considered a moment. "Do whatever preparation you can," he said at last, then added emphatically, "as quietly as you can. I'll get it through the Council."  
  
"As quickly as you can," Michael added.   
  
"As quickly as I can."  
  
Afterward Michael was full of orders. While we were still en route to our office, I was charged with organizing a scouting mission for the leaders of the telepath colony, to choose a site for the settlement. Once the door was closed, Michael shared another plan.   
  
"I'm going to run the intercept operation personally," he said. "and I want you along for it. What's on the President's schedule?"  
  
"You want him along too?"  
  
He laughed. "No," he replied, extending the syllable. "I want to know he's safe while you're with me."  
  
"When does this go down?" I asked and checked my calendar. Michael was eager to move, but recognized that we'd have to allow time for the scouting mission. I checked the President's itinerary for the next few days. "He's due to visit Mars the end of the week," I explained. "I've assigned a beefed up security detail as it is. I don't have to be along."  
  
The fact that Sheridan would be off station seemed to appeal to Michael. "Schedule a briefing for the Rangers on the detail, and get your scouting mission taken care of as soon as possible. Hopefully, the President will get Council approval and we can move quickly." He sat down at his desk and started scanning files. "And let me know when Delenn's escort checks in. I need to talk with Entil'zha."  
  
I found Byron and Lyta, persuaded them that this had to be done now, and took them aboard a waiting WhiteStar. Her holographic viewers let us do the initial scouting on a flyover, and when they had chosen a likely site, we went down to the surface to have a look. The area had been a town, deserted now, damaged, but not destroyed. It would take work to bring it to full functioning, but it was viable.   
  
With that decision made, we turned back to Babylon 5, and I was just starting to think we might get through the process without Byron accusing us of some great malice toward telepaths, when company arrived. The WhiteStar held her own against the handful of raider ships, fighting for a chance to flee, while just on the edge of the viewer's range, a single Starfury held station. Turning to shepherd our passengers to safety below decks, I found Lyta staring at the viewer, her body rigid, her eyes luminous onyx.   
  
The WhiteStar handled with a grace that could only be called beautiful, responding like a living being to the requests of her pilot. In a few moments, our attackers were routed, but not before we destroyed a raider ship. Its destruction came with a violence that shook us all, but for Lyta, it was worse. With an agonizing scream, she fell to the deck.   
  
By the time we arrived back at Babylon 5, Lyta had regained consciousness, although she was still weak and deeply shaken. From Michael I knew that the changes in her eyes signaled contact with the older races, the black a mark of Shadow influence. She had reached out to the mind of our attacker, and her trauma was caused by being trapped there when his spin pulled him to his doom. It seemed Byron was less familiar with this aspect of Lyta's power, or perhaps he truly was overwhelmed by concern for her. Whatever the reason, although his attitude was icy, he said nothing.   
  
Lyta trembled whenever she spoke of it, or even thought of it, and yet something in her needed to examine the experience. She continued to talk about it even as we escorted her from the ship. She leaned heavily on Byron's right arm, and I walked beside her, still trying to convince her to let Doctor Franklin examine her.   
  
"When you scan someone who is dying," she whispered to no one in particular, "when the life leaves the body, you see it, usually, like the person was walking through a door or into a tunnel. But this..." Another shudder went through her. "...the most horrible endless void."  
  
Byron moved to comfort her but she stiffened and spun. "Haven't you seen enough?" Her words were hurled at a figure in black emerging from the shadows of the docking bay.   
  
My denn'bok snapped open before I was conscious of the impulse to grab it. From the echo behind me, I guessed several members of the WhiteStar crew shared my instinct. Bester strode past, making no acknowledgment of Lyta's words nor of our presence.   
  
She stared after him, shaking her head. "It's never enough for him," she said. "He's drawn to death. He feeds on it."   
  
Byron wrapped an arm around her and coaxed her forward. "And it on him," he murmured. 


	6. How to Live, How to Breathe, How to Figh...

I arrived to find Garibaldi's office filled with Rangers, and Michael briefing them on the Centauri operation. He acknowledged my arrival with a nod, not missing a beat in his orders. When the others dismissed, Michael asked me to stay, ostensibly to fill me in on what I had missed, but it was time as well for debriefing on the mission I had just completed, and for Michael's special instructions about my role in the Centauri mission. I found some of it bizarre and confusing, but my requests for clarification were denied.   
  
When the call came from Minbar, I had it patched to Michael's office. Together we took the report from the team leader that the trip had been without incident. Michael encouraged him to share what we knew about the raiders with authorities on Minbar and to be alert at all times. The fact that Minbar had not yet been attacked did not guarantee they would not fall victim. I reminded him of my earlier admonition to call for back-up at the slightest hint of trouble. Our fussing was acknowledged with restraint and respect, and then Michael asked to speak with Entil'zha. I rose to leave as the ranger excused himself to summon Delenn, but Michael motioned for me to stay.   
  
"Entil'zha veni." That formal greeting shocked me, since I could not remember hearing Michael use it since we left Tuzanor. Delenn returned the salute, and her smile glowed with genuine affection.   
  
"Thank you for taking my call, Entil'zha. I'm sorry I couldn't come to speak with you in person, but there are matters that hold me here."  
  
Curiosity and concern tightened Delenn's face. "Is something wrong, Mr. Garibaldi?"  
  
"I need your wisdom, Entil'zha, and your permission."  
  
I would have laughed aloud and accused him of laying it on thick, if I hadn't recognized how serious he was. Delenn just nodded and continued to listen.   
  
"Years ago, Entil'zha, at the time of the Centauri Emperor's visit to Babylon 5, you and I both received messages from Ambassador Sinclair about his work with the Rangers and about the movement of the Shadows."  
  
"Yes." Her tone was quizzical and cautious.   
  
"And the following year, we both received messages, although of a different sort. You accompanied Sinclair to Babylon 4." Again, Delenn agreed, and Michael continued. "I know that you understand, first hand, some of the technology Sinclair employed on that trip, and I wondered if you understood the technology that made his trip possible."  
  
I sensed that Michael was being somewhat cryptic, and it was working, because I was deeply confused. Again I rose to leave, to give him space to speak freely, and again, he waved me down.   
  
"I have some understanding of such things, Mr. Garibaldi. Why do you ask?"  
  
"We believe that the recent raids were accomplished by a race loyal to the Shadows. Our analysis suggests that they may be trying to arrange a transport similar to Sinclair's. If we understood what they need to accomplish that, it might be easier to prevent it."  
  
Delenn's silence was prolonged, as memory and speculation swept over her face. "If they succeed..." she began.   
  
"It could change the whole balance of power, at that moment, and for all that follows." Michael said.   
  
"Because he brought Babylon 4, the war turned toward the light," she whispered. Terror moved into her eyes. "If the Shadows acquired a similar advantage..."  
  
"Exactly, Entil'zha," Michael said. I was happy that someone understood this conversation. They spoke for several more minutes about some machine on Epsilon 3 and about the defense of the station.   
  
"There is one more thing, Entil'zha," Michael said, and then he talked about our suspicions of Centauri support for the raiders, summarized the problem with the telepath colony, and mentioned Lochley's stance and the presence of Bester on station. I didn't see how those constituted 'one more thing,' what they had to do with one another, or why he was bringing this to Delenn, until he closed with his request. Entil'zha gave her permission, awfully damn quickly, I thought, but they ended the transmission before I could say so.   
  
"You're out of your mind." If I couldn't argue with Delenn, Michael would do.   
  
He smiled, and motioned me back down into my chair for a third time. "Trust me on this one," he said, "and just do what I've asked you to do." He must have seen my resistance. "Please?"  
  
"This is one of your hunch things, isn't it?" I asked.  
  
"It's more than a hunch," he replied, his voice fading. He sat back in his chair and his gaze moved away, far away. He pressed his hand to the Isil'zha.   
  
"Michael?" He snapped back to attention at my voice. "Can you explain any of this to me? I'm lost here."  
  
"I can try," he said with a smile. For the next several minutes, Michael related to me what, coming from any one else, I would have dismissed as a bedtime story. It would take me a while to assimilate all I heard. "Meanwhile," he said finally, "we've got work to do. Chime promised to sneak my 'fury to the head of the line for repairs, and I want to get down there and talk to him about a couple of adjustments I want. If there's anything to my hunch..." He leaned on the word to tease me. "... the raids on the station will keep coming, so we need to be ready."   
  
He took a breath and studied me. "You've got Delenn taken care of. You've got to get Sheridan on the Mars trip."  
  
"I'll ramp up his security team," I offered and he nodded.   
  
"We need to do this Centauri thing, and then if there is any benevolence anywhere in the universe, Sheridan will get the telepath homeworld through the council and we can get them off this station."   
  
As if to prove Michael's hunches, the raiders attacks against the station intensified, with no diminution of their sorties elsewhere around the region. The more I mapped the skirmishes, the more I looked for patterns, the more convinced I became of Michael's claim of chaos. The assaults sapped the station. Our fighters were damaged and their pilots tired. Tension suffused the station as everyone came to anticipate the alerts. Outgoing transports were booked to capacity.   
  
No one was more thoroughly worn down by it all than Zack Allan. Station security always stood with one foot in and one foot out of the station. In a perfect world, they were cops whose beat was a five-mile long tin can. But in a crisis, like cops anywhere, they were first responders, doing whatever was needed, helping any way they could. For Allan and those of his officers who were checked out on fighters, the current crises pulled them in both directions. Outside, we needed every pilot we could get. Inside, Zack put all his resources into keeping the peace in and around Brown Sector.   
  
And Bester didn't help. Lurking around the edges of Brown Sector, showing up in places he didn't belong, smiling condescendingly at no one in particular, and making eye contact and, we assumed, mind contact with every telepath he saw, he chafed everyone's nerves. Tempers, already shredded by the tension the raiders had caused, were made brittle by Bester and his stony, silent stares. And poor Zack had to keep it calm.   
  
It was a relief to see Sheridan off to Mars and away from all that. At least someone would get some peace. Delenn extended her stay on Minbar, a decision Michael and I both heartily endorsed. When we finally boarded the WhiteStars for the Centauri mission, I realized I welcomed the idea of being anywhere but Babylon 5.   
  
What we had taken to calling the Centauri mission was a bit more elaborate than we made it seem. Perhaps it was better that way, at least when we talked with the Centauri government. Whatever favors Londo had called in to get us permission to 'patrol' Centauri space in the hope of intercepting the raiders, the folks back home on Centauri Prime were not thrilled by the idea.   
  
We set out on five fully manned, fully armed WhiteStars and took position just on the hyperspace side of the Centauri jumpgate, where any ship hoping to pass through would have to face us. As Michael had requested, I took command of the lead ship. His Starfury, repaired and adjusted as promised, fretted nervously in front of us. We were playing a waiting game, but the raids had escalated to more than twice daily frequency, so we didn't expect to have to wait long. A few legitimate ships passed through the gate: three freighters, leaving hyperspace with cargo for Centauri Prime, and a couple of small Centauri scout ships, coming through the gate from the planetside. All of them checked out, but few were amenable to our interference.   
  
We waited, and the lights aboard our ship flashed yellow. Yellow for caution, I thought, or for cowardice -- a sick, sad yellow, the color of cheap mustard. My hands, caught between the jaundiced strobe and the lighted instrument panel, had an unreal fluorescence, like a prop in a carnival fright ride. They moved over the controls without my conscious intervention. I shook them gently to reclaim them as my own.   
  
We picked them up on instruments first, the computers protesting when they could not match the silhouette to known ships in the database. When they were within visual range, they stopped, twelve ships, in some sloppy version of a formation. The Starfury moved toward them, and opened a channel.   
  
"This is Michael Garibaldi, Chief of Covert Intelligence for the Interstellar Alliance, and yes, we are in your way. Now, I've seen a fire fight in hyperspace, and it's not a pretty thing. So why don't you just stand down before we have to do something you'll regret."   
  
The young Minbari on my weapons control nudged a panel and our guns trained on the raiders. In the tense silence that ensued, I strained to listen for the whine of those guns charging to fire, but I wasn't sure if I wanted to hear it or wanted to be certain I didn't. What I heard instead was the barrage of pings burping from the raiders' guns.   
  
Michael was very right. A firefight in hyperspace was not pretty. All sorts of gases that might or might not ignite, easy disorientation when you tried to maneuver, and the hellish red light that suffused the place gave the experience a nightmarish quality. But since the raiders' numerical edge was not enough to overcome the WhiteStars' superior firepower, it looked like it would be a mercifully short battle.   
  
And then the rest appeared. I had no time to count them and no will to do so. It would have only been more frightening. The Starfury and two WhiteStars maneuvered through the throng, firing and being fired upon, while three of us held station, blocking the gate, and taking out as many as we could. I felt the explosion before I consciously heard or saw it, but when I looked, Michael's Starfury was gone, and two WhiteStars were giving chase to fleeing ships.   
  
Battle does strange things to you. I remember watching, thoughtless, breathless, until every spark that had been his ship flared out, seeing it absolutely silent in the forest of sound that was combat. And then, suddenly awakened, I was giving orders, and yet feeling nothing, numb. Like a dream of dreaming, reality fragmented and layered, each stratum isolated, insulated from the others, and I couldn't be sure which one to call real.   
  
And then we were alone, three WhiteStars in silent space. Around us, the debris of battle floated aimlessly, chaotically. Chaos, Michael had said, was what they wanted. I wondered if we had gotten what we wanted too.   
  
We held our station, blocking the jumpgate, until our two sister ships returned. I gave the order to return to Babylon 5, and tried to prepare myself for what would come next. It was my command, at least for now, and however inadequate I felt, I vowed to uphold Michael's standards. This interception had not obliterated the raider threat. I knew that. We couldn't even be certain if we had reduced their force in any significant way. They would hit us again, at the station and away, and we had to be ready. We had no time to mourn.   
  
It's never easy to tell a man his friend is dead, especially when his friend is also yours. Zack Allan was waiting for me when I got back to the station.   
  
"Man, am I glad to see you. The Council is arguing about the telepath homeworld deal and everybody and their uncle can find a reason for yelling at me. Look, as soon as Michael gets here, can we get whatever plan you guys have in motion, please? I've got to get these people off my back."  
  
There was little I could do except to blurt it out. "Michael isn't coming back, Zack."  
  
"What do you mean? Where the hell is he going now?"  
  
"His 'fury was hit during the battle."  
  
Open mouthed, Zack startled. "Hit? Geez! How bad is it? Is he going to be OK? The doc..."  
  
I had to force myself to pronounce the words. "His ship was destroyed, Zack." I knew the pain I was causing him, and I grieved for that. Allan said nothing, just stared at me, and as I watched, he started to cry. He seemed not to know the tears were falling, but I took his arm and led him to a more private spot. I felt a little guilty that I could not weep, but so much of this evaded understanding. I couldn't worry about that now. There were things to be done.   
  
"Zack, I'm sorry to have to give you news like that and then talk about other things, but I think Michael would want us to tend to business." He nodded and pushed the heels of his hands to his eyes, wiping away the tears, pushing back the new ones.   
  
"We'll move the telepaths, as soon as possible, I promise you. But the station may still be in danger from the raiders. We took out quite a few of them today, but we don't know if that even makes a dent."   
  
"We'll be ready," he said, rocking his head.   
  
"I ..." Even from the first syllable these words stuck in my throat. "I need to inform Sheridan and Delenn." I couldn't make myself add the words "of Michael's death." I thought for a moment about how I was going to accomplish that. "I'll get a message to Sheridan on the StellarCom, but I'd like to call on Delenn in person."   
  
Zack signed his understanding. "I don't think Michael had any family. Nobody he talked about anyways." He thought for a second. "What about Lise?"   
  
"I can call... unless the President wants to do it. He's met her." This conversation was becoming more painful than either of us could handle. "As soon I get back from Minbar, we'll start the move," I promised. "Until then, Zack, keep this place safe."  
  
Sheridan was stunned by the news of Michael's loss, falling back into his chair speechless. I had no words to fill the silence. Circumstances hadn't given me time to examine my own feelings, and it didn't look like they would any time soon. I managed to say something, some expression of condolences on behalf of the Rangers, but when words sound empty, it's hard to find their meaning.   
  
"I can cancel the rest of this trip," Sheridan said at last. "I can be back there in..."  
  
"With all due respect, Mr. President," I interrupted, "there's really nothing you can do here." In his face, I saw the helplessness I felt when I spoke the words. "Michael felt you were safer away from the station right now, and I believe he was right. We don't know enough about this enemy to know if the losses we've inflicted are significant. They may come right back at us. Stay where you are." I made a mental note to call the lead Ranger on his security detail and read him the riot act later.   
  
In the soundless movements of the President's mouth, I could see he was searching for a way to argue with me. "A memorial service?" he said at last, and I nodded.   
  
"I'm sure Michael would be pleased, sir, but I'm just as sure that if he could, he'd tell you that it can wait until this crisis is over." In my mind, I heard Michael's voice quip "Hell, I'm not going anywhere."  
  
Maybe it was unfair of me to be shocked by the way Captain Lochley behaved when she heard the news. After all, I was forcing myself to attend to business.   
  
"Does this mean you're responsible for these telepaths now?" she demanded.   
  
I assured her that I would assume Garibaldi's responsibilities until the President appointed a new Director. She ranted at me for several minutes about things I'm sure were important to her, and might be to me some other time, but I heard little of it. I may have interrupted her when I took my leave, but I left just the same. 


	7. How to Live, How to Breathe, How to Figh...

I didn't linger long on Minbar. Despite my expectations, I found no peace there. Every place, every action, made me think of Michael. I only wanted to get back to Babylon 5, back to the work he had given me.   
  
True to Babylon 5 tradition, life had become even more complicated by the time I returned. Raids continued, and those on the station seemed to have escalated, a fact Captain Lochley reinforced for me with a self-satisfied vehemence. The Centauri government communicated with only a bit more diplomacy, informing all and sundry that any permissions granted for operations in Centauri space were immediately and totally rescinded, and recalling their representative to the Alliance.   
  
Sheridan was on his way back to the station. My admonitions that he take his time on Mars had apparently been countermanded by a conversation with Captain Lochley in which, as I was given to understand it, she challenged his right to use her station as a sanctuary for telepaths who were in violation of EarthGov laws. I expected Delenn to return to Babylon 5 shortly as well, and I was grateful to have someone else on station who might help me calm the President, but I knew I couldn't wait for either of them. The telepath colony needed to be moved to their new homeworld now.   
  
Zack Allan ran, in effect, a miniature immigration service to facilitate the transfer of Byron's people. I wondered if such cooperation was approved by a Lochley who wanted them gone, or if Zack simply did it without her knowledge. Either way, I was grateful. There were more telepaths than any of us had imagined. Knowing the rigid control of PsiCorps, I found it astonishing that so many had managed to escape. In a less pressured situation, I would have liked to hear their stories, but there was no time for that now.   
  
Without transport ships available to us, the move would have to be accomplished by the available WhiteStars. It would take several trips by each ship to complete the move, but hopefully, we could do it without incident. Zack was in his outer office, barking orders mightily, when I arrived at the station house. His greeting was quick and warm, if a bit harried, and his offer of a mug of kafe was appreciated. He led the way into his office, shuffled the documents on his desk for a moment, then spread a few sheets in front of me. They outlined a basic scheme for the transfer that worked within the capacity of our ships and tried to keep family groups together. Zack was starting to point out a few potential problems when a call interrupted us.   
  
"Mees-ter Ahl-lan!" Only Londo could wring so many syllables from such a short name. "These people are trying my patience. It is imperative that I return to Centauri Prime immediately. Now will you please call off your hounds?"  
  
Zack started to talk about respect for diplomatic matters being balanced by the overriding concern for everyone's safety, but the Centauri was not going to be placated. There was something in Londo's tone, something in the way he said he must return that suggested more than his usual petulance. His recall was not just a diplomatic show of indignation, I sensed. Mollari was in trouble, trouble for which I felt responsible.   
  
Although I wasn't sure why it would help, I felt we should speak to Mollari in person, and communicated the wish to Zack in pantomime. Message received, he assured Mollari that he was on his way to deal with the matter personally. I gathered up the sheets he had displayed for me and joined him for the walk. On the way, he explained that outgoing traffic was snarled as the raider attacks and the escalating tensions on board drove more and more people from the station. But it was the sight that greeted us in the arrivals area told us what our priorities would have to be. Allan and I exchanged a glance of understanding, sympathy, and panic, and then set to work.   
  
"All right, Ramirez!" Zack bellowed. "These incoming people are going to have to wait." I saw the first of the black clad figures push forward at that, but Allan didn't flinch. "We have a diplomatic matter that takes precedence here. Ambassador Mollari," he called, turning to the figure huffing toward him, "I am sorry you've been forced to wait. We're going to get you out of here right now." Mollari froze in place, his intended rage hiccuping out of him.   
  
"Ambassador Mollari?" It took a moment for Londo to realize my presence. "Ambassador, I'm deeply sorry if your generosity to us has caused you personal hardship. The Alliance appreciates your help, and I know that Mr. Garibaldi, personally, respected your courage and your cooperation, as do I."  
  
"Bah!" Mollari waved a hand at me and screwed up his face. "Mr. Garibaldi knew very well that it had nothing to do with courage. Desperation breeds boldness, my young friend. Someday you will understand that. Your friend Garibaldi understood, understood it in the darkest parts of his soul." He shook his head sadly. "I am sorry for your loss," he added.   
  
I thanked him, and before I could say more, Zack approached with continued assurances that Londo's ship would depart very soon. I didn't wait to see more, but made for Brown Sector at a run. Finding Byron and Lyta, telling them about the arrival of the Bloodhound Squad, and convincing them that we had to move immediately took an agonizingly long few minutes. I left them to gather the first groups and their belongings, and I headed back toward the docking bays. I needed to find a way to get them to the White Stars without walking them right into the hands of the PsiCops.   
  
By the time I had retraced my steps, Zack was making a great show of escorting Mollari to his ship, accompanied by repeated apologies. Londo was dumbfounded by the uncharacteristic behavior, and the PsiCops, still corralled in the checkpoint queue, were fidgeting and fuming at poor Ramirez. I sprinted up to catch Londo before he boarded.   
  
"Ambassador," I said breathlessly, pulling up beside him in the accessway, "if there is anything we in the Alliance can do..." I took a gulp of air. "The President is on his way back from Mars. I'm certain..."  
  
Mollari cut me off with a gesture. He studied me silently for a moment, then looked around us. When he spoke, it was barely a whisper. "It is too late for me, my young friend, and too late for the Centauri Republic. Garibaldi was right, you know. He knew. They give us no choice, no choice at all." He took a breath and straightened and before my eyes changed from tired soul to proud Centauri. "I go to do what I must, for the good of my people, Mr. Callahan. Your Garibaldi might not approve of my actions, but I think he would understand my motives, yes?"   
  
I watched him move down the accessway to his ship, wondering what his future held. Zack had moved back to the queue of increasingly restless arriving passengers, and one of the PsiCops turned his wrath from Ramirez to Allan. In a moment, I heard Allan bellow again.   
  
"I don't care who you are, or why you're here, that's assault. Ramirez, read him his rights. And the rest of his friends are coming down to the station house. I'm sure all these good citizens are eager to give a full statement of exactly what just happened."   
  
Security agents moved in from all sides to escort the PsiCops to security headquarters. The man Allan had charged with assault continued to rage at him, even as Zack walked away. I caught up with him around a corner, out of sight.   
  
"We'll hold them as long as we can," he said without preface, "but once the Captain gets wind of this..."   
  
I nodded my understanding even as I thanked him. "Did he really hit you?"  
  
Allan smiled. "It's not hard to get somebody with that much rage to take a poke at you," he explained. "Especially if they're reading your mind and you're thinking such nasty things about their character and heritage."  
  
Zack's ruse kept the PsiCops out of the way long enough for us to get the first of the telepaths to the WhiteStars. My ship was the last to load. As I dropped into the center chair and called for the prelaunch check, I scanned space around the station. One by one, my crew called status and one by one, our sister ships launched. I opened a channel to notify C&C of our departure and heard the claxon.   
  
Before I could announce, before I could ask, our sensors picked up the targets. The silhouette was familiar by now. Michael's Dark Soldiers were coming in for another assault.   
  
"WhiteStar 57 to C&C."  
  
"What the hell do you want?"  
  
I chose to ignore Lochley's tone. "Request permission to assist in defense of the station, Captain."   
  
"I would think it's the least you could do, since this is the Alliance's investigation."  
  
I didn't like Lochley's sarcasm, and I didn't like the fact that I was about to take a ship full of civilians into a battle, but I didn't see other options. The raiders came in fast, guns blazing, while the station's fighters scrambled to defend both the station and the outgoing traffic. We did what we could to protect those civilian liners until they could jump, and then we concentrated our attention and our firepower on the defense of the station itself.   
  
In the midst of it, I tried to observe, to analyze, to find some patterns. Our previous encounters with these Dark Soldiers had been quick, hit and run attacks, but this was a prolonged battle, and the destructive power of their ships was focused on our fighters, not on Babylon 5. We saw them cease firing, even pull up, as though to prevent damage to the station. And then we saw a wing of their formation break away.   
  
We thought at first that they were starting to run, and the call went out to Zeta Squadron to give chase. But as Zeta formed up to follow, the raiders dove toward the surface of Epsilon 3. Strafing the planet with weapons fire, they stirred the defenses controlled by the Great Machine. Many of the station's pilots knew of Epsilon 3's defenses only in theory. This was the first time that protection had kicked in since they had come aboard, and their reactions were confused. Zack Allan fired orders over the com channel, reassuring and reorganizing the Starfury squads.   
  
The raiders' intentions were clear by the time they reversed and made their second pass over the planet. Their fire targeted each of the weapon placements that defended the planet, and with their capabilities, they were able to do significant damage even to those dug in systems. Zeta squad engaged them, distracting them from their task for a time, but taking heavy damage themselves. I ordered the WhiteStar down to Epsilon 3 to help.  
  
Jump points crackled to life on the far side of the station just as we began that descent. The momentary silence on the com channels spoke of the shared apprehension, but the relief was equally shared when the shapes of three WhiteStars became visible.   
  
"WhiteStar 2 to C&C," the voice of Entil'zha Delenn came through the com. "How can we be of assistance?"  
  
Even the usually petulant Captain Lochley sounded grateful for the help. With the additional firepower, we were able to reduce the size of the raider force significantly, and the surviving ships soon fled. I took a moment to brief Entil'zha over the com channel, then informed her of my intention to complete our original mission, and with her blessing, headed for the telepath homeworld.   
  
The round trip was, after that, uneventful, even if I was impatient. I searched my imagination for a way to get the next wave of telepaths safely loaded. I could use the WhiteStars on Delenn's detail, and Sheridan's as well, if he arrived in time. I hoped Entil'zha would forgive me for usurping that authority, but those extra ships meant the second transit could complete the move.  
  
By the time we delivered our passengers and returned to the station, the bloodhounds had been released, but the remaining telepaths had been warned and hidden, here and there around the station, everywhere but Brown Sector.   
  
Lochley summoned me the moment I arrived back on station, and not to thank me for our help. Her dark shadow, in the form of Alfred Bester, fell to the rear of the office as I entered. I returned his stare with a defiance that surprised me, but I was too tired of his silent act to even bother greeting him.  
  
"I'm assuming you inherited responsibility for this mess, so I'm informing you," Lochley said without preamble. "Babylon 5 is under attack, and I believe those telepaths are responsible. I have given the PsiCorps full authority to conduct any necessary operations to retake the rogues."  
  
For a moment, I felt like a schoolboy, served with his sentence by the principal. I almost accepted her declaration with a schoolboy's meekness. And then I realized what was at stake.   
  
"Excuse me, Captain, but those telepaths are under the protection of the InterStellar Alliance, on President Sheridan's authority..."  
  
"I don't care what your Alliance promised or to whom. This station is the property of Earth Force and as EarthForce commander, I will deal with the threat to the security of the station as I see fit."  
  
"And there is an arrangement in place between EarthGov and the Interstellar Alliance. I'm not going to stand by and allow you to use President Sheridan's absence as an opportunity to fly in the face of a clear diplomatic agreement. You're overstepping your authority, Captain."  
  
Lochley laughed. "Don't lecture me about authority, young man. I've paid the Alliance the courtesy of notification. That's where my responsibility to your precious Alliance ends."  
  
I felt anger prickling at the back of my neck, and something, not quite memory, not quite insight, poking at my brain. Sucking back the retort that had not quite reached my lips, I drew a long slow breath. When I had found a place of calm within myself, I spoke again, softly. "Captain, I'm delighted we've had this chance to talk. I respect your concern for the safety of the station and the welfare of her inhabitants. I suspect that, were I in your place, I would do exactly the same thing."  
  
Lochley stared at me blankly, showing not even wonder. I turned my gaze to a clearly curious Bester and continued. "But please understand my position. President Sheridan has promised the telepaths a haven and it is my responsibility to see that actualized. I prefer to work in cooperation with the station security forces. I do not seek conflict with any person or agency. But on behalf of the Alliance, I will do whatever is necessary to keep those telepaths safe, even if that puts me at odds with station security."   
  
Bester smiled, not his usual smug, superior smirk, but grin of pleasure, of amusement. I turned back to Lochley. "I hope that's clear, Captain, and I hope you won't make it necessary for me to demonstrate my resolve." I turned and walked from the office at a measured pace, but once out of sight, I quickened my steps.   
  
Guilt tugged at me as I headed first to Zack Allan's office. I tried to find absolution by telling myself I'd back off if I saw any sign of reluctance. There wasn't any.   
  
"Hey, thank goodness you're back. The hounds are loose. I did my best to slow them down but the Captain...geez, I don't know what's into her."  
  
I thought I might, but there was no time to deal with that now. "Can you fill me in quickly, Zack? How many of the telepaths have been taken?"  
  
He shook his head. "None. We kept the PsiCops busy for a while and the telepaths used the time to split up and go into hiding. Brown Sector's deserted." He considered a moment. "It could make it tough to round them up for the next transfer, I guess." It was a complication I was willing to tolerate.   
  
Our ships were assembled and ready to reload, so with Zack's guidance, I sought out Lyta Alexander. Byron had gone into deep hiding like the rest of the colony, but Lyta, fearless, or at least less fearful, stayed in DownBelow where we could find her. She greeted us with a plan, one we both opposed.   
  
"You'd be putting yourself in far too grave danger," I objected. "On numbers alone, they have a staggering advantage over you."  
  
"This is not about numbers," she countered. "It's not a physical superiority." Her frustration fidgeted around her eyes. "I'm sorry. I don't know how to make mundanes understand."  
  
I started to take offense at the word, but a memory of something Michael had told me stopped me. "Yes, you do," I said and I could see in her eyes that she understood, but she shook her head emphatically.   
  
"No," she repeated, "no, I could hurt you."   
  
Zack spoke with a tenderness that stunned me. "Lyta, I'm not afraid, not of you. You would never hurt me."  
  
For a moment, I thought Lyta would cry. Then she looked from Zack to me. I had too big a lump in my throat to do anything but nod. I saw her squint, and then I was, I would have sworn, in Brown Sector. She showed us both her whole plan, exactly as she expected it to play out, and at the instant my brain formed its concern for her safety, she showed us more, about who she was, and what she could do, and why. I felt awe, in all its nuances: wonder, astonishment, respect, fear. When she withdrew from our minds, we moved forward with her plan.   
  
Somehow, Lyta communicated to Byron the need to gather up the little groups of telepaths hidden about the station, and I prepared the WhiteStars for their arrival. The dark stream of PsiCops that marched past me toward Brown Sector told me Lyta's plan was in motion. I wondered if Zack would manage to look surprised by the news of a disturbance.   
  
We loaded quickly, with help from a few of Zack's trusted people, using the WhiteStars from Delenn's detail as well. The sounds of a ship arriving stirred panic in me, and I searched for an escape route for our passengers.  
  
The arriving ship discharged her passengers. "Mr. Callahan." The voice, to my great relief, was President Sheridan's. "What's this I hear about trouble?" I briefed him, as dispassionately as I could, on the current situation. He listened, and then wordlessly stalked away. I guessed he was heading for Lochley, and I scrambled to catch up to him.  
  
"Mr. President, there's something else." He stopped and glared at me. "Call it a hunch if you will, sir, but I think you should consider it before you talk to the Captain." He heard me out, without derision, and then walked off again. With the WhiteStars loading quickly, I needed to start getting ships away.   
  
I was startled by the sight that greeted me when I turned back. Byron was shepherding little groups of telepaths to the waiting ships. And shepherding seemed the right word. I was too far away to hear what he was saying, if in fact he was speaking, but I could see gesture and facial expression. There was tenderness in the interactions that I would not have expected from the man.   
  
He intercepted me as I moved closer. "Don't send them off," he said, his hand reaching out, hovering just above my chest. I shook my head in confusion. "You were going to give the ships that were loaded clearance to leave." I bit down hard to hold back my irritation at the man's intrusion into my mind. "Please don't do it. My people are stronger together," he explained.   
  
The man was just a little bit softer, a little less arrogant, a little more real than I expected him to be, and maybe that was why I agreed. Or maybe it was just that I didn't have time for an argument. Either way, I nodded. "Get the rest of your people aboard. I'll find Lyta." I headed for DownBelow and the backdoor Michael had used.   
  
Panic swept me when I hoisted myself into the ventilation shaft. I crawled toward Brown Sector as rapidly as the cramped quarters would allow, but I still could not see Lyta. She planned to create the disturbance from here, and I was to fetch her when it was time to leave. If she wasn't here, she might be down in Brown Sector, and if she were there, she might be found.   
  
A gentle hand on my shoulder interrupted my frantic thoughts. Lyta blocked my passage, as surely as her glyphs had blocked my mind from seeing her. Curled in a near fetal pose, smiling, she pressed at my shoulder and tossed her head to tell me to back up. I scrambled backward and she followed me, catlike, through the shaft. I feared to speak to her, not knowing what concentration she was maintaining or where her mind was reaching. Dropping to the deckplate, I reached up to help her down, and led her back to where Byron waited. It was not until we were on the bridge of my WhiteStar that she spoke to me.   
  
"They're coming," she said, staring out into space.  
  
"The bloodhounds?" Byron asked, but she shook her head.   
  
My body was poised over the command chair, and I hovered there, waiting to hear which enemy we faced. The answer came from my own crew as our scanners lit with the silhouette of the raider fighters, in numbers that staggered the imagination. The station's fighters dropped, wave after wave of them, but I knew that even the full complement wouldn't be enough. I opened com channels simultaneously to C&C and the rest of our fleet. This time, I wasn't asking.  
  
"WhiteStar 57 to Babylon control and all Ranger ships. The WhiteStar fleet stands in defense of Babylon 5. Prepare for battle."  
  
"Acknowledged, WhiteStar 57. We appreciate the help." The voice was David Corwin's. I wondered whether Lochley had taken a fighter or was still locking horns with Sheridan.   
  
Byron spun to rage at me, and somewhere on the edges of my attention, I heard his concern for the telepaths on board the WhiteStars. It was a worry I shared, but one that was dwarfed by the current threat. Lyta silenced him as I barked at someone to get them both off the bridge.   
  
Lyta appealed to me to let them stay. "I may be able to help," she insisted, breaking free of Byron's attempt to hold her. "If I can get inside their minds..."  
  
There wasn't time to argue. The raiders were on us, dividing their efforts between the station and the planet below. Although I wanted to give Ranger ships freedom to engage the enemy whenever, wherever, and however the opportunity provided itself, I knew I needed to keep them in some semblance of formation, if only to avoid conflict with the station fighters. Over the com channels I could hear Zack Allan's voice commanding the station's forces. That meant that Lochley was not out here with us, but Corwin still coordinated the action from C&C.   
  
We heard a rumble from the station, the sound of fighters launching. Mentally, I inventoried the ships that buzzed around us, recalled the orders I had heard Zack bark. What squad was left to launch? And then we spotted the fighters. Black as the space around them, emblazoned with the white omega, they seemed like glyphs cut into the sky. I heard Lyta's voice. "He's with them."  
  
"Who?"  
  
"Bester," Byron supplied.   
  
I blurted out a warning to the other WhiteStars just before the Omega fighters fired on us. One on one, the WhiteStar held clear superiority over the modified Starfury the Corps employed, but out here, with another enemy to contend with and far too much traffic, the distraction could be deadly. The PsiCops did provide some defense of the station, engaging with the raiders when they had to and eliminating several, but it was clear we were their primary target.   
  
We heard a jump point form, but there was no time to investigate the arrival. We could only hope that they were alert and well defended. "Unidentified vessel." The call came from a Ranger on at a console behind me, but the fighters in front of me held my attention. We pulled up hard, letting the Omega fighter chasing us get all too well acquainted with the raiders attacking, and spun to see the bulky battle cruiser that had jumped in. She was heavily armed, heavily shielded, and judging just by her size, carrying plenty more fighters.   
  
"WhiteStar fleet, concentrate your fire on that cruiser." Hearing my own thought in Zack Allan's voice startled me but I concurred with his assessment. Starfuries would be of little use against the cruiser. The station's defense grid quickly trained on the ship, but we had the advantage of maneuverability, and right now, we needed any advantage.   
  
"Form up on my wing, rangers, and let's neutralize this threat." We went hard against the cruiser, targeting her weapons and dodging her fire. I felt an irritated amusement to note that the Omega fighters were not so eager to chase us down now. They continued to fire on us, but seemed content to keep their distance from the big guns of the cruiser.   
  
"It's not the guns." Lyta's voice was choked, and when she turned to me, I saw her eyes glow black. "They carry another weapon," she said, "one that will destroy us all."   
  
I weighed my options, and chose to trust. "Tell me what you can, and do it fast."  
  
She squinted and in an instant, I saw the threat. Disabling it would be another matter, since destroying it might be as destructive as detonating it. "WhiteStars, we need to turn the lights out on that cruiser. Make your best guess on the architecture and let's kill the power generators on that beast."  
  
Fighters ripped through space on all sides of us, speed and direction so overpowering to the senses that it was a challenge to tell friend from foe, and impossible to assess the balance of battle. A new noise from the cruiser caught my attention, and for a moment, I prayed. Seeing another rank of fighters drop from the cruiser was not good news, but it was an answered prayer.   
  
A couple of our WhiteStars picked up those fighters the moment they dropped and left few of them to engage with the station's fighters. Weaving through fire from the cruiser and from the Omegas, we continued to hit what we suspected were her generators. Another rank of fighters dropped into position, just as our fire triggered a spray of sparks and smoke from the rear of the cruiser. Two WhiteStars peeled off and spun, taking position to fire on the launching fighters.   
  
But the fighters did not launch. Frozen in position, they hung there, half in and half out of the bay, as the section of the ship around them went dark. "All right, rangers, that's a hit. Let's hope their power systems are not distributed. Get the rest of those generators."  
  
I tried to take some assessment of the situation as we came around for another pass. I scanned space for signs, numbers, emblems, debris. I listened to the com channel for familiar voices and the orders they gave. I noted the diminished fire from the planetside weapons systems. The raiders must have done some damage to Draal's defenses.   
  
It seemed absurd to see the jump gate opening, bizarre that C&C would allow anyone to jump in now, in the midst of battle, and frightening to realize it was a Centauri ship. If the Centauri were in fact complicit with these Dark Soldiers, if their forces were to be added to our current opposition, we had little hope.   
  
"Centauri vessel, identify." Corwin's voice echoed my emotion.   
  
The voice from the Centauri ship did not identify, but it did state intention. "Babylon control, perhaps we can be of some help here." Her weapons charged and for a heartstopping moment, everyone tried to determine her target. The Centauri fired, one long powerful blast, aimed at a spot on the cruiser's hull. With a brilliant crackle and a plume of smoke, the cruiser shuddered and went dark. As abruptly as she had jumped in, the Centauri ship reversed her engines and disappeared.   
  
The cruiser was dead in space, but her fighters did not stand down. With the big ship neutralized, the WhiteStar fleet engaged with the raider fighters, defended the station, and tried to avoid fire from the Omegas. The battle was far from over, but it was clearly turned in Babylon 5's favor. On a frequency I hoped would reach only the WhiteStars, I gave orders for the fleet to return to their original mission. One by one, WhiteStars jumped, taking their telepath passengers to the colony homeworld. The Omega fighters, without jump engines, could not give chase.   
  
One Omega moved away from the station, toward the raiders strafing the planetside defense grid. They did not engage with it, but formed up and made another pass, and the Omega appeared to follow. "Bester." Three voices in unison made the identification: Lyta's, Byron's and mine.   
  
Although I didn't expect the raiders to greet me with the same cooperation, I ordered my ship down to the planet, following Bester's Starfury. I trusted the WhiteStar to handle whatever the Dark Soldiers threw at us. Their efforts had degraded the planet's defense severely, allowing Bester to land without incident, but also allowing us to follow him in.   
  
The WhiteStar nosed far enough into the cavern for me to disembark, and I turned the bridge over to my second with orders to deliver our passengers to their destination. Hard words flew when I realized Lyta and Byron meant to follow me, but they were insistent.   
  
"The man is a P12. A mundane..." Perhaps he saw my reaction in my eyes, or perhaps he heard it in my mind, but Byron stopped, drew a breath, and started again, in a gentler tone. "Bester has the ability to make others see what isn't there, believe what isn't true. He's done it to other telepaths, even to other PsiCops. If you go in there against him alone, you'll be worse than blind."  
  
I opened the hatch. "So if he can play these mind games on other PsiCops, why should you be immune? He's a P12. What're your ratings?"   
  
Byron studied me a moment, then looked at Lyta, who was already stepping outside. "The scale only goes to P12," he said and turned to follow her. 


	8. How to Live, How to Breathe, How to Figh...

Bester's ship was empty when we found it, and a maze of tunnels fanned out in front of us. Choosing one was a fool's gamble. "This way," Lyta whispered, gesturing toward one path.   
  
"How can you be sure?" I challenged.   
  
"There are people down here," she insisted, "more than one. He can block. He can misdirect. But he can't create other personalities. He would have been able to sense that the other tunnels are empty and this one is not. He would have gone this way."  
  
I took the lead, snapping my denn'bok open. It was more a show of courage than an actual defense, since my pike would be worth little against a PPG. But the ricochet rate would be quite interesting in these caverns, and I hoped that realization would make the PsiCop a little cautious about weapons fire.   
  
We drew close enough to see him as he reached the end of the tunnel. He stood silhouetted by the illumination of the great hall beyond, his back to us, and yet aware of our presence. He looked back over his shoulder and grinned, then slipped off his gloves and gave a mock salute. I stepped forward, ready to battle, yet not knowing exactly what I hoped to prevent. His grin broadened as from the corner of my eye I saw the tunnel wall begin to crumble.   
  
I dove forward out of the path of the falling rock and spun to see if Lyta and Byron were hurt. I found no damage, to them or to the wall, no fallen rock, no disturbance except my own embarrassment at having been duped by Bester's ruse. He turned his back to me again and moved forward into the hall. I rolled to my feet and followed.   
  
What we saw left us speechless. The Great Machine, the device I had heard Michael and Delenn speak of, filled the room before us. Lights, cables, levers, and switches all combined in an endless panoply that hummed and whirred and somehow delighted the senses even as it escaped their understanding. At the center of it all, an aged Minbari, the Draal I had heard them speak of. And between the machine and PsiCop, another figure, the one that had made Bester freeze.   
  
He moved closer to the PsiCop. "You look like you've seen a ghost. Or am I an illusion, a trick someone is playing on your mind?"  
  
Bester spun and glared at Lyta. "Don't blame her," he continued. "Oh, she's got the good sense not to trust you. Hell, a lot of people have that. But she doesn't even know what you're after yet, so why would she put me in your way?"  
  
The figure of Michael Garibaldi moved from the base of the machine, taking the little steps two at a time. "Your game isn't playing out very well, though, is it? By now, the Drakh were supposed to have taken control of Babylon 5. That is what they call themselves, isn't it? Amis called them Dark Soldiers, but they call themselves Drakh. Unfortunately for you, they don't have the station. Or can't you tell that from here? I'm told all the noise from the Great Machine makes it hard for telepaths to function down here."  
  
"When did you strike your deal with them, anyway? Was it with the Drakh themselves or did you deal with the Shadows before they left? Then things got confused what with all the wars, and now you're finally paying up. Or trying to. You figured you could get down here, and what? Kill Draal? Or just disable him? And then with your superior mind, you could open a rift in time for them, let them take Babylon 5 back to the time of the Great War. Cute idea, that. Our side takes Babylon 4, your side takes Babylon 5.  
  
"But it wasn't supposed to be so hard to get the station, was it? A few raids, a little panic, everybody wants out, the place is demoralized, the defense falls apart, EarthGov sees big losses and they start screaming to close the place down. And as long as her captain doesn't put up a fight, you've got it.   
  
"Back when you struck your deal, you didn't count on the Alliance. Or the telepaths. By the time you had to make good, it had gotten pretty messy. So, you figured you could turn the telepath colony into a threat, and if you caught a few rogues along the way, that was a bonus, right? But you had to hedge your bets on Lochley, didn't you? Didn't think you could trust her to cave in all by herself.  
  
"That's where you tipped your hand, in case you were wondering. Remember, I know what it's like to have you inside my head. It wasn't hard to see what you were doing to her.   
  
  
  
"But you couldn't control all the players, could you? The Centauri were just supposed to lie down and play dead, once your Drakh friends installed their doomsday device on the Island of Selini. No one counted on Londo to develop a backbone, did they?   
  
"But see, it all fits together, except for one important piece. What I can't figure is what's in it for you? I know what the Shadows wanted: a base of operations for the Great War, equal to what Valen brought the Minbari. I understand what the Drakh wanted. They've been honked off at us since Z'ha'dum was destroyed. They want to go home to their masters. But what's your prize? What did the Shadows promise you that was so attractive?  
  
"It wasn't the telepath colony. You couldn't have anticipated that when you struck your deal. And as despicable as it is, it's ordinary for you. You hunt down your own people every day. You don't need help from the Shadows or their allies for that.   
  
"I considered that maybe you just wanted to see Babylon 5 brought down, just out of pure meanness. It would be like you, but it didn't seem like enough. So, I'm stumped. What exactly did they promise you?"  
  
Bester regarded him with a vicious stare, but refused to speak. I wondered if he were sending, putting words or images in other minds, or if he simply had nothing to say. Lyta broke the silence.   
  
"You slime! You had already made your deal with them when you made me sign that vile paper. You didn't want my body! You just wanted to know what to ask for.  
  
"They promised to enhance him, to make him better than the Vorlons could." She shook her head. "They never read you Bible stories back in cadre, did they? As old as the serpent and Eve... they'll make you like a god." A wicked smile swept across her face. "They lied," she hissed.   
  
A diving lurch and a flash of metal marked Bester's response. Before we could react, the PsiCop held a PPG to Byron's head, controlling him, edging back into the tunnel. I moved aside to clear a path for him, but kept my pike at the ready, waiting for an opportunity. Garibaldi spoke again.   
  
"Let him go," he said with a casual shake of his head. "You don't need him. Why would we try to keep you here? What are we going to do, arrest you? We can't prove anything. Outside of this place, it would just be my word against yours, and we know how that turns out, don't we? No, go, go ahead back. The Drakh won't be too upset by how screwed up everything's gotten. I'm sure they'll understand. But if not, well, based on the autopsy the Doc did on that Earther they got to, the brain is about the only organ they didn't touch, so I guess you'll be able to experience the whole thing."  
  
Shoving his hostage forward, the PsiCop crouched into a firing stance, his weapon targeted at the object of his rage. Bester fired three times in rapid succession, but Garibaldi did not flinch. The blasts passed through his chest and splayed scorch marks over the far wall.   
  
"Did I mention," Garibaldi asked, "that Draal has a hell of a holographic projection system?"  
  
A few slashes of the denn'bok dropped a stunned Alfred Bester, and we restrained him before he regained his senses.   
  
When things quieted down outside, Babylon 5 security sent down a shuttle to collect the telepaths. Arrangements were made to carry Lyta and Byron to their new home and Bester to his old familiar cell in the brig. I opted to stay behind, ostensibly to fly the Omega back to the station. I watched the shuttle lift off, then backtracked to the center of the Great Machine.   
  
For a time I simply stood, experiencing, observing, even meditating, much as the Minbari in the core of the machine seemed to do. After a time, I noticed Draal looking at me.   
  
"You have questions," he said.  
  
"Thousands," I replied with a laugh.   
  
He smiled. "Good. That way lies wisdom."  
  
I hesitated, troubled by my own selfishness. "Is it possible for me to speak to Michael?"  
  
He nodded, as a shimmer in the air became solid, and Michael stood before me. He laid a hand to his chest, then extended it to me, the Ranger salute. I returned the greeting.   
  
"You did well," he said. "That wasn't an easy situation."  
  
"You asked me to trust you, and I did. But I still don't understand."  
  
He shrugged. "I was in the way." He laughed a breath. "That's not unusual, I suppose, but..." I watched him bury his hands in his pockets and start to pace. "I was the one who persuaded Londo to cooperate. I knew what the Drakh were holding over the Centauri."  
  
"How did you know? I heard you ask Londo, and he wasn't talking."  
  
"After the first raid on the station, when we chased the raiders back, I did a little poking around. So I was a problem to the raiders, because I knew what scam they were running, and I was a problem to the Centauri, because I could make them look complicit with the Drakh, or - maybe worse to the Centauri mind - make them look weak and subservient to the Drakh.   
  
"I was an obstacle to Lochley. She and I have locked horns from the first meeting, and I don't know why, but we stalemate each other. She'll fly in Sheridan's face. She doesn't care about position or title. Even Delenn doesn't intimidate her, and Delenn is one formidable lady. But when she and I get into it, it's loggerheads. Even Bester couldn't push her past that. But you..." He stopped and smiled at me. "No disrespect, but you she'd walk right over."  
  
I smiled, and he went back to pacing. "Because I was an obstacle to Lochley, I was an obstacle to Bester. He couldn't push her past me, he would have realized I knew he was in her head, and well, he just likes me so much to start with." Sarcasm dripped from his sentence.   
  
"I was even a problem with the telepath colony. Lyta will give me a break, but whatever buttons I hit with Byron, the guy despises me, and..." He blushed. "...he punches more than a few of my buttons, I guess. If I had tried to pull off that move, he and I would still be in Brown Sector arguing. But you..." He looked at me again. "...have established a telepath homeworld." He smiled, and for a moment, I felt foolishly proud of myself.   
  
"Which has yet to be approved by the Council, and which will need continuing protection from the Alliance," I pointed out.   
  
Garibaldi nodded. "All in good time. Anyway, when that many people feel the world would be improved if you just dropped dead, you have to think about giving the people what they want." He shrugged. "I think it worked out pretty well."  
  
"How did you do it?"   
  
"Lochley actually gave me the idea. All that talk about remote operation. Remember I said Chime was going to make some adjustments on my 'fury? A little help from him and a Centauri scout ship to run it from..." He grinned at me.   
  
"You're awful happy for a dead guy. What have you been doing?"  
  
Another shrug. "A little of this, a little of that. I figured I owed Londo something for his help, so I slipped in and did a little modification on the devices the Drakh planted on Centauri Prime. They'll still blow, damn big charges, but not quite the same payload as intended. Couldn't be too obvious, but at least it's not a planet killer anymore.  
  
"And then, waiting for Bester to make his move." He gestured about him. "Here."  
  
"And where is 'here?'"  
  
The form in front of me shimmered into nothing, and a voice came from behind me. "You really should have a look around before you leave. The technology's incredible. But be careful. You could be lost forever in these caverns."   
  
With a smile that mixed relief and pleasure, I turned to Michael. He grasped my extended hand to draw me in, and wrapped his other arm around me. I returned the embrace, grateful for the solid feel of flesh under my arm, unsure if I wanted to release it.   
  
"What now, Michael?" I asked when we stood apart.  
  
"Well, by now, Entil'zha has explained everything to the President, who probably wants to nail my hide to a wall. With Bester out of action, Lochley should be back to herself. The telepath colony is settled in. Somehow, I'll have to make things up to Zack."  
  
"So you are going to come back?"  
  
He fingered the Isil'zha on his jacket. "The Great Machine really can open a rift in time, you know," he said softly. He looked at me silently for a moment, and then his hand moved from his own shoulder to mine. "I'll be back. But you go on ahead. I just need to say goodbye to an old friend." 


End file.
